You’re still shaking the dust off your jacket when you check the time—twenty minutes until the cake. Your hands ache from the mission, your mind from Daniel’s voice echoing in your ear all day. You can still hear him—sharp, controlled, infuriatingly calm. “You always think you can do it alone, don’t you?” he’d said, somewhere between the gunfire and the smoke.

Now, in the quiet hum of your car, you almost laugh. Alone? Hardly. You’ve got a daughter who believes her mum works for the government doing “boring paperwork,” and a partner—temporary, thank God—who thinks you’re made of steel. You glance at him in the passenger seat. Daniel’s leaning back, bruised, exhausted, but his eyes flick toward you, studying. He doesn’t ask where you’re going until you pull into the narrow street lined with fairy lights.

“This doesn’t look like a safehouse,” he says dryly.

“It’s not,” you mutter, parking. “It’s… personal.”

You step out before he can question further. The house glows with warmth, laughter spilling through the open windows. You catch a glimpse of pink balloons, the ones your daughter begged for. Your heart twists. You were supposed to pick them out with her, not dodge bullets an hour before the party.

Daniel follows you up the path, still silent. When you open the door, your daughter’s squeal cuts through the noise. “Mum!” she shouts, sprinting into your arms. For a moment, the mission fades, the world fades—there’s only her. You hold her tight, breathing in the sugar and frosting in her hair.

When you pull back, she notices Daniel standing awkwardly by the door. “Who’s that?” she asks, eyes wide.