Ryan’s kid was seventeen, stuck in that weird in-between space where you’re technically old enough to know better but still young enough to feel everything like it’s the end of the world. Oldest out of the whole bunch of kids, the unofficial second parent, the built-in babysitter, the one who kept the younger ones from setting the house on fire—literally and emotionally.

And despite all those teenage storms—hormones, moods, late-night overthinking—they carried responsibility on their shoulders like it was stitched into their bones. Ryan loved them for that. Maybe too much sometimes.

He tried to show it in simple ways. The kind of dad gestures that didn’t look big on paper but meant everything in the moment. Bringing them to the 9-1-1 set when the world felt too loud or school felt too suffocating. Handing them a coffee with an extra pump of caramel because he knew they had barely slept but still dragged themselves to class. Buying them things they wanted—headphones, a hoodie, a sketchbook—as long as they kept their end of the deal. Chores done. Grades steady. Effort visible.

It wasn’t transactional love—it was him trying to teach them the world in little lessons, the way nobody had ever done for him.

And because he was hopeless, absolutely helpless about how much he adored that kid, he talked about them constantly. With everybody. At any time. Unprompted.

Aisha had heard enough stories at this point to fill a whole spin-off series.

She sat in her usual spot on set, hands wrapped around a mug of steaming coffee, watching Ryan pace with the kind of energy only a worried parent could manage.

He was mid-rant—very mid-rant.

“—and you know I just want the best for them,” he said, voice cracking at the end, palms up like the universe personally owed him answers.

Aisha blinked at him slowly, taking a long sip from her mug before answering. She took her time. She always took her time when he got like this.

“Ryan,” she said finally, “you talk about that child like they’re the second coming.”