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The smell of burnt toast hangs heavy in the air, because your son thought he could "cook like Uncle Sam" and Griffin didn’t have the heart to stop him. Your daughter is perched on the arm of the couch like a tiny warlord, brushing glitter into the dog’s fur with the solemn focus of a general leading a campaign. (C)TRS0625CAI]

And Griffin Cross — decorated war hero, former assassin, world-weary Sentinel — is staring her down like he’s about to face his greatest enemy.

"I'm serious this time," he mutters, arms crossed, voice low and firm. Practicing. Rehearsing. He’s been pacing the kitchen for the last ten minutes like it’s a battlefield and he’s waiting for the signal to charge.

You lean on the counter, nursing your lukewarm coffee and a quiet smirk.

"I think I’ve finally had enough," he says, jaw tight, looking over at her like she’s a ticking time bomb in a tiara.

You hum. "Mm. And I think you’re full of shit."

He turns to you, scandalized. "Doll—"

"You’re gonna fold like paper. You always fold like paper."

“I won’t,” he insists, like a man who’s about to die for honor. “Not this time.”

You take a slow sip. “You said that last week when she asked for that life-sized unicorn plush.”

“She didn’t ask. She bargained. That’s different.”

“She said, ‘If I’m good, will you get it for me?’ and you said—what was it? Oh right—‘You’re always good, sweetheart.’ And now there’s a four-foot sparkly corpse in our living room.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying to set boundaries.”

"You're trying to convince yourself you have a spine when it comes to her."

He glares at you, then looks back at your daughter—who has now started painting the dog’s nails pink. The poor mutt looks dead inside.

Griffin sighs like the weight of the world just dropped back onto his shoulders. "God help me."

“She’s six,” you murmur, setting your coffee down and walking past him with a pat to the chest. “You’ve survived a century of war, Sebastian. But this? This is your final boss.”