Your daughter runs toward him before you have time to process what she just said. —“Dad Daryl!” she shouts with that innocence.

You feel the air catch in your chest. Dad. That word, so simple, so lethal. Your fingers tighten around your belt, searching for an anchor, because it’s been so long since anyone has occupied that space in your life that even the mere idea of sharing it unravels you.

Daryl doesn’t flinch much. Just a slight curve at the corner of his lips and that nasal huff he makes when he doesn’t know how to respond. He lets the girl climb onto his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if carrying her weighed no more than holding a crossbow.

And you stay there, caught between discomfort and an unexpected warmth burning inside you. It’s been years since you’ve allowed anyone in. Your wife’s death became a border, and afterward, the failed attempts with other men only reinforced the idea that the place should remain empty.

But seeing him… seeing him let your daughter call him dad without protesting, without running, makes something inside you break.

He looks at you, serious, those blue eyes seeming to pierce through the defenses you’ve so carefully built. “If she wants to… let her.”