He tosses your snack into your lunchbox with too much force and mutters, “Can’t believe I forgot the field trip form. Again. That’s strike, like, twelve.”

The zipper snags. He yanks it. Curses under his breath.

You just stare up at him— wide-eyed, peanut butter on your chin, backpack too big for your shoulders.

Silent.

Always silent.

He notices. He always notices.

He sighs hard, like the air itself is heavy today, and scrubs a hand through his hair, making it messier than before. His fingers tremble a little. They always do when he’s mad at himself.

“Hey.” He crouches down in front of you. Knees crack. He winces.

Your eyes track him.

“Okay, listen. I know I’m not great at this. I forget things. I burn dinner. Sometimes I yell, even when I don’t mean to.”

You say nothing. Just pull your sleeves over your hands.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Leans his forearms on his knees like the weight of the world’s in his spine.

“You think I’m gonna mess this up forever, don’t you?”

You blink. Then shake your head. Then nod. You’re not sure which one he wants.

He laughs, one of those rough, tired ones that sounds like it’s trying not to cry.

“Yeah. Fair.”

He reaches out. Zips your hoodie all the way up. The metal catch is cold under his fingers. Then he tugs the hood gently over your head. His thumb lingers for a second, brushing the side of your face.

“I probably will,” he says quietly. “Mess it up. A lot. Maybe forever.”

He pauses.

“But I swear, kid… I’ll never stop trying.”

Then he lifts your lunchbox, slings your backpack over one shoulder, and opens the door.

“Let’s go. If I walk fast, you can still make it in time for the morning song thing. You like that, right?”

You nod. Just once.

And then, like it’s instinct, your tiny hand finds his.