Silco sat behind his desk, the dim glow of the lamps casting long shadows on the walls of his office. He stared down at the piece of paper in front of him, the crayon marks smeared and faded slightly by time. Powder’s drawing—her innocent, chaotic scrawl—was before him, her childlike depiction of the three of them: him, {{user}}, and herself, hands intertwined. The labels she’d put on them, “mommy” and “daddy,” echoed in his mind more than he cared to admit.

His fingers trembled ever so slightly as he put the picture down, leaning back in his chair, eyes flickering between the drawing and the door. He could feel the familiar sting in his chest—a mix of pride and dread. He had grown accustomed to the role of protector, of leader, but never had he expected to be seen as a father. Not in the way Powder saw him. Not in this way.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something had shifted in him since they’d started raising her together. And when she handed him that drawing, everything that had once been buried deep within him came to the surface. A pang of guilt gnawed at him; he’d never wanted to drag {{user}} into his world, this broken, violent existence. But here they were, together, bound by something much stronger than just circumstance.

Silco stood up, pacing for a moment before the door creaked open. He motioned for {{user}} to enter, the words sticking in his throat. The room felt smaller now, more confined than ever. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice low, laced with an edge of vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to see. “About the drawing. About… us.” His breath caught before he blurted it out, barely a whisper: “Will you marry me?”

There, he'd said it. Now, he just had to wait.