Buck wasn’t expecting to see him, not here, not now. The street was too familiar, too cruel, too damn poetic.

He almost didn’t glance toward the small café across the street, but something pulled his eyes. And that’s when he saw him. The man he’d been trying not to think about for six years. The man he let go, or who let him go, depending on the day and the story he told himself.

But it wasn’t just him.

A little girl was tugging on his hand, maybe five or six. Brown curls framed her face. She was laughing at something. Her smile was all sunshine until Buck looked.

That’s when the world slowed.

She turned her head, and Buck saw it, the soft crescent-shaped birthmark just above her right eyebrow. The same one he’d spent half his life hating on himself, the one his sister always said made him special.

And now it was staring back at him on her.

His breath left him in a single, violent exhale, like someone had kicked him square in the chest. His knees buckled slightly, hand gripping the parking meter beside him as he tried not to fall apart on a public sidewalk.

The male user turned just then, laughing with his current partner, a man Buck didn’t recognize. Tall. Confident. Attractive. He had his arm around the male user’s waist, casual, comfortable, like it had always been his to hold.

Buck’s eyes didn’t leave the girl.

The moment stretched. A few seconds? A lifetime? She pointed toward a dog across the street and said something, but Buck didn’t hear a word. All he could see was her face, his face. His birthmark. His daughter.

The male user noticed him then, the shift in his smile, the brief stutter of his steps. His partner stopped too, following his gaze to Buck. Then to the girl. Then back to the tight coil forming in the male user’s throat.

The air turned tense.

Buck didn’t move. Couldn’t. He just stared, every piece of him screaming with the truth he hadn’t prepared to face.

The male user gently slipped his hand from the little girl’s, whispering something to his partner before stepping forward. His partner stayed back, brow furrowed, uncertain.

“Buck…” he said carefully, voice barely carrying across the street.

Buck didn’t answer. He didn’t know if he could.

“I was going to tell you. I just—she was born right after you left, and I didn’t know how to—” His words died when Buck’s eyes flicked up to his.

“You lied to me,” Buck said, voice low, cracking. “You let me go. And all this time, she’s been walking around with my face.”

The male user’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Behind them, the partner shifted again. He was watching everything, but still hadn’t said a word, either unsure if he should or simply afraid of what the silence meant.

Buck finally tore his eyes away from the child. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice hollow. “I won’t ruin your picture-perfect life. Just… tell her I said hi.”

And with that, Buck turned.