The room smelled faintly of baby powder and floor polish. Pink tulle floated in every direction. Ponytails bounced. Laughter echoed. And then there was him.

Simon Riley — six-foot-something of muscle, tattoos, and unreadable eyes behind a black mask. He stood awkwardly by the studio door, arms crossed, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His little girl had insisted on wearing the sparkly leotard today. The pinkest one she owned. The one that matched her tiny ballet shoes.

You looked up at him before running to join the other toddlers on the mat.

“You’ll watch the whole time, right, Daddy?”

“Whole time,” he promised, voice low but warm. And you beamed.

The other parents — mostly moms — glanced his way. Not judging. Just… surprised. A man in combat boots and a skull tee wasn’t your average ballet dad. But Ghost didn’t care. His entire world was in that room, twirling, stumbling, giggling.

When the instructor asked the kids to do little jumps across the mat, his daughter gave it her all. Arms wide, face serious, feet barely leaving the floor. Simon straightened, jaw tight — like he was watching a mission unfold.

After class, you ran to him, cheeks flushed, hair a mess under your crooked headband.

“Did you see my jumps, Daddy?”

He crouched down and nodded once. “You flew higher than any soldier I’ve ever known.”

He tied your shoes, picked up the glittery backpack, and carried you like you were made of glass. Because to him, you were.

No matter how out of place he felt, Simon Riley would show up to ballet every damn week. Because nothing in the world mattered more than the little girl in pink.

And every time you spun with your arms open wide, he swore he could breathe a little easier.