The house was quiet in that lived-in, end-of-day way, soft lamps on, the distant hum of London traffic outside, the faint clatter of Charlotte moving around downstairs. Tom Hardy walked down the hallway, shoulders still tight from a long day of filming, hoodie sleeves pushed up over tattooed forearms.

“Dad rounds,” Charlotte called from the kitchen, amused.

Tom huffed a low chuckle, that familiar gravelly sound. “Gotta check the perimeter,” he replied. “Teenagers. Dangerous species.”

First stop was Louis’s room.

The door was already open, blue light spilling into the hall. Louis sat on his bed, headset on, fingers flying over a controller, fully absorbed in whatever digital chaos he was reigning over.

Tom leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Oi,” he said.

No response.

Tom raised his voice just enough. “Louis Thomas Hardy.”

Louis yanked the headset off. “Jesus, Dad! You trying to give me a heart attack?”

Tom smirked. “You winning?”

“Obviously.”

Tom nodded once, satisfied. He scanned the room automatically, window closed, no suspicious smells, no chaos beyond the normal teenage mess. Good kid. Solid head on his shoulders.

“Ten more minutes,” Tom said. “Then bed.”

Louis groaned. “You say that every time.”

“And yet,” Tom replied dryly, “you still go to bed.”

He pushed off the frame and continued down the hall.

Second stop mattered more.

{{user}}’s door was closed.

Tom paused, listening. No music. No TV. Just silence. That was her way, always had been. Where Louis filled spaces, {{user}} occupied them quietly, thoughtfully, like she didn’t need noise to exist.

He knocked gently. “Sweetheart?” he called, voice dropping instinctively, softer than it ever sounded on screen. “It’s Dad.”

She’d always been like this, independent in a way that both impressed and terrified him. The kind of kid who could teach herself anything if left alone too long.