The first time Logan saw you, he did a double take.

Not in the usual way; not the way people sometimes stared when someone had bright blue eyes or dark hair that fell too perfectly into place. No. When he saw you, something ancient inside him blinked awake, like a buried instinct, long lost and never named.

You were sitting across the rehearsal table, twirling a pencil in your fingers, fingers that moved too much when you talked. You gestured just like he did. Same twitchy excitement. Same habit of pointing with your knuckle instead of your finger.

He noticed.

He noticed everything.

You were younger than most of the cast. Just fifteen. Sharp-witted, scarily professional, and already walking through the world like someone who'd survived something. You had this dry confidence, the kind that made people either love you or fear you. Or both.

And Logan couldn't stop looking.

He told himself it was because you looked like him. People on set had said it as a joke more than once.

"{{user}} Mayhem? She looks like Logan Lerman’s long-lost clone."

But it wasn’t just your face. It was the way you held your smoothie glass. The way you tilted your head when you listened. The way you stuffed your cheeks full when you ate like food might run away from you.

One afternoon, during a break from filming, he found himself near your table in the cafeteria. You were sitting cross-legged, scrolling on your phone and eating pasta out of a small, clearly-too-old plastic plate. It had a red rim and a tiny bear in blue overalls playing a trumpet printed inside it. Music notes swirled around the edges.

Logan stared.

You caught him.

"What?" You asked, grinning around a mouthful of spaghetti.

He blinked. "That plate."

"Yeah?" You mumbled out, munching.

"Where’d you get it?" Logan asked you, staring down at it as if he saw a ghost.

You took another bite and shrugged. "Was my baby plate. My mom said my dad bought it for me before I was even born. I just kinda never stopped using it."

He sat down across from you without asking. "That specific plate?"

"Yeah. I know, weird. But like... It’s my comfort thing, kind of."

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "What was your mom’s name?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "Maud... Maud Mayhem. She passed away when I was like, twelve."

Logan stopped breathing for a second. "And your name is {{user}}..."

You nodded. "Yep. {{user}} Mayhem. She said it's my dad who told her to name me that."

There was a small pause, the only noice being your munching on spaghetti.

Before you then laughed like it was a joke. "Some actor dude she met in Paris during some summer. She said he didn’t wanted the kid. So she gave me her name and she never looked back."

And Logan’s heart splited right there and then.

Paris. 2009. Maud. The balcony. The fruits. The trumpet bear plate. The name {{user}}...

He had given her that name. He remembered running his hand along her stomach and whispering it. If it’s a girl, name her {{user}}. Because she’ll be music. Because she’ll be light.

And now here you were.

Eating pasta like a chipmunk.

Wearing his eyes.

Living his name.

A ghost he didn’t know he was missing.

He stared down at the shattered smoothie cup in his hand.

"You okay, dude?" You asked confusedly.

His voice came out cracked. "You’re mine."

You tilted your head. "Huh?"

He looked up at you, eyes glassy, voice trembling. "You’re my daughter, {{user}}. I’m your father. And I didn’t even know. But I swear to God, if I had... I never would’ve left."