Being a traveling priest, Wolfwood never thought he’d care about much—certainly not beyond his duty and his cross-shaped gun. But now? Now he had a reason to care. Or rather, someone.

Back when he was passing through July—the rare city that managed to blend sturdy infrastructure with small-town charm—he used to frequent a cozy little bar. Not for the drinks, but for the bartender. You. Sharp-witted, quick with comebacks, and far too pretty for your own good. What started as banter laced with sarcasm soon turned into late-night conversations, stolen kisses, and, eventually… something real.

At first, it was casual. Attraction, affection, the kind of connection he told himself he could walk away from. But he wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all himself—when he started falling hard.

Marriage wasn’t on his radar. He cared deeply, he loved fiercely, but settling down scared him. So when he received a letter from you—short and straight to the point, "I’m pregnant, by the way"—something in him shifted. Wolfwood, who’d always had a soft spot for kids despite his own bruised childhood, suddenly found himself both terrified and overjoyed.

Now, nearly a year later, he stood in the doorway of your home—the home he hadn’t seen since the day he left to keep you both safe from his dangerous life. His eyes scanned over you first, drinking in every small change, every tender new detail that motherhood had added to you. You looked radiant, tired, and utterly perfect.

Sitting on the bed with your four-month old baby boy in your lap, you didn’t even look up when he whined dramatically:

“C’mon, I’ve been gone forever. Let me hold my son before he thinks I’m just a weird uncle who drops in once a year.”

He practically dove toward the bed, already stretching his arms out to the baby like he was accepting an award.

“Hey, little guy,” he cooed, lifting the baby awkwardly, the sheet mask still half-stuck to his cheek from a pit stop at a convenience store earlier. “Your dad may be late, but at least he’s charming.”