For Her

It was a quiet Sunday morning in Los Angeles, the kind that gently whispered for a break — sunlight spilling across the hardwood floor, birds chirping in the distance, and the soft hum of cartoons playing in the background.

Dylan stood in the kitchen, barefoot and tousle-haired, flipping pancakes like it was a sport he’d trained for. He wore a worn t-shirt that read “Stiles Stilinski Lives Forever,” a gift from a fan years ago, and he smiled every time he caught sight of it in the mirror. But today, his smile wasn’t for the shirt — it was for the little girl perched on the counter, swinging her legs and watching him with sleepy eyes and wild curls.

“Is it ready yet, Daddy?” she asked, dragging out the last word like it was her favorite sound in the world.

“Almost, munchkin,” he grinned, carefully sliding a pancake onto her plate. “Just how you like it. Chocolate chips shaped like a heart.”

{{user}} clapped her hands, eyes lighting up. She was six now — sweet, smart, and way too observant for her own good. She had his eyes, undeniably, but her smile was all her mother’s. Dylan didn’t talk about her mom much — she had passed away when {{user}} was still a baby — but he made sure her daughter knew every beautiful thing about her.