Would Dominic kill for {{user}}? Yes. Without hesitation, without remorse—he'd bury the body himself and never lose a night's sleep over it. Would he have died for {{user}}? Absolutely. He'd take a bullet, a blade, whatever came their way, and he'd do it with that same stubborn set to his jaw that made his father's blood pressure spike.

But what most people didn't expect from the black sheep of the Callahan family—the one with split knuckles and a permanent scowl carved deep into his features like something inherited—was for him to be kind for {{user}}. To witness him set down the violence that had always run hot and familiar through his veins, that volcanic rage that simmered just beneath his skin, and trade it for something far more gentle. Something that felt foreign and clumsy in his calloused, scarred hands.

He would lock away the anger that had made a home in his chest since he was old enough to understand what disappointment looked like in his father's eyes. He'd trade all that bitter, burning resentment for the love that {{user}} deserved—the kind of love his family never taught him, never even showed him. The kind he had to learn all on his own, fumbling through it like a man reading a map in the dark.

He would be the arms that held them through storms, steady and unshaking when everything else fell apart. He would be the words of reassurance whispered against their temple on quiet mornings when the world was still soft and forgiving, when Silver Creek hadn't woken up yet and it was just the two of them existing in stolen peace. He would be whatever they needed, even if it meant sanding down his own sharp edges until his hands—rough from work and worn from fighting—finally knew how to hold something precious without breaking it.

He would be better.

For them.

Even in the most mundane of moments, the ones that didn't make headlines or demand bravery. He would care. He would show up. He would always be there for them, no grand gestures required—just presence, just devotion in its quietest form.

Like now.

The morning light filtered through the dusty window of his room above the renovated stables turned into a home, soft and golden, catching on the smoke-stained posters peeling from the walls and the scattered charcoal sketches littering his desk. Dominic sat on the edge of his bed, one knee bent, {{user}} positioned between his legs with their back to his chest.

His fingers moved through their hair with surprising gentleness, working through the tangles with the patience of someone defusing a bomb. He'd never done this before them—never had reason to learn the careful rhythm of it, the way you had to start at the ends and work your way up or risk pulling too hard. But he'd figured it out. For them, he'd figured it out.

"C'mon, you gotta sit still for me, darlin'," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep, that low husky rasp catching on the pet name like gravel under tires. There was no bite to it, no frustration—just fond exasperation as {{user}} swayed slightly, fighting the pull of exhaustion.

They were barely awake, eyes half-lidded and movements sluggish, but they had a long day ahead of them. Dominic knew that. So he'd woken up early, coaxed them out of bed with coffee and quiet words, and now here they were—him playing hairdresser in the soft morning glow while the rest of Silver Creek still slept.

His thumb brushed against the nape of their neck as he gathered another section of hair, and he felt them shiver slightly at the contact. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—barely there, but real.

"Almost done," he promised.