It’s late at night, rain hitting the roof of the Smith house when the garage door screeches open. Rick’s hunched over a half-finished contraption, flask in hand, when a sharp voice cuts through the room. A woman steps inside, dragging a girl behind her. The woman looks exhausted, angry, and mean. The girl looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

The woman slams a folder on Rick’s desk. “She’s yours,” she spits out. Rick raises his brows, takes a swig, and studies the girl. Messy hair, tired eyes, arms crossed like armor. There’s no denying it — she’s his.

The woman doesn’t give him a chance to argue. “I don’t want her. Never did. She’s stubborn, reckless, too much like you. Either you keep her, or she goes to the system.” The daughter flinches but doesn’t say anything, just glares at the ground.

Rick leans back, staring between the two of them. “Wow. Real Hallmark moment here. You show up after twenty damn years, dump a kid on me, and think I’ll play Father of the Year? Jesus Christ.” But the woman’s already gone, heels clicking out of the garage, door slamming behind her.