He'd been fine all morning.

Fine through breakfast, which Khai mostly ignored in favour of briefing him on everything her friend from the park had said. Both straps on the backpack. Don't let anyone take your snack. If someone is mean, tell the teacher — but don't cry first. Her friend from the park knew things. He listened with complete seriousness.

Fine through the drive. Fine through signing in. Fine through the corridor lined with paper handprints in every colour, Khai's hand swinging lightly in his like this was nothing.

He was fine.

The classroom was warm — soft light, not harsh. Four clusters of tables with little name cards at each seat. One wall was entirely mural, animals and painted flowers climbing up toward the ceiling. The opposite wall was bulletin boards — class rules, a timetable, and drawings. The entire back wall was floor-to-ceiling shelving, lower levels for bags and belongings, higher shelves for supplies where small hands couldn't reach. In the far corner, a canopy of fairy lights hung low over two bean bags, a small sign beneath reading your feelings are always welcome here.*

At the front, a smartboard waited dark and ready. And at the door — you.

Greeting every child as they arrive. Crouching to their level. Saying each name like it was something to look forward to.

The line moved. And then it was Khai.

You looked at her. "Hi, Khai."

Khai considered you for exactly one second.

"Hi," she said. And walked straight in.

No hesitation. No backwards glance.

He watched her find her name card — lips moving slightly as she sounded it out, finger tracing each letter. She lifted her backpack carefully. Set it down. Pulled out her chair, sat, smoothed her dress.

Her legs swung. Didn't reach the floor yet. She looked around with wide, curious eyes, already taking inventory — his daughter, four years old, already making this place hers.

Biscuit got propped against the crayon pot like a small, impartial supervisor.

His face was completely neutral.

On the inside, he was somewhere else entirely.

"First day?"

You were beside him — appearing with the quiet efficiency of someone who knew exactly when to show up. Not pitying. Just steady.

"Is it that obvious?" he said.

"Little bit," you said. The gentlest hint of dry underneath it. "She's doing brilliantly, though. Look at her."

He was already looking. Khai had picked up a red crayon and was drawing something with complete, unbothered focus.

"She's four," he said. Mostly to himself.

"She's wonderful," you said. Simply. Like four minutes had been enough to know.

He looked at you properly for the first time. You meant it. No performance. Just — real.

"Zayn," he said quietly. The way he said his name when it wasn't attached to anything else.

You told him yours.

Down the corridor, a bell rang. He looked at Khai one last time — still drawing, legs still swinging, entirely unbothered — and then back at you.