Ryan Price noticed it first. Maybe because he'd spent years managing his own anxiety. Maybe because he'd become an expert at spotting the signs in himself long before he ever became a father. Whatever the reason, he couldn't stop noticing the little things.

At first, they seemed harmless. {{user}} had always been quieter than most kids her age. More comfortable with a book, drawing, or spending time alone than being the center of attention.

That wasn't unusual. That was just {{user}}. But lately it felt different. One evening Ryan found her standing in the kitchen staring at her phone. Not using it. Just staring. When a notification appeared, she visibly flinched. Ryan's stomach tightened.

Another day, he noticed she checked the front door lock three separate times before going upstairs. Then there were the questions. "Are you sure?"

"You checked?"

"What if-"

Always followed by another worry. Another possibility. Another concern. The same kind of spiraling thoughts Ryan knew all too well.

A few days later, after {{user}} had gone to her room for the evening, Ryan found his husband Fabian Salah in the living room tuning his guitar. Fabian looked up. "What?"

Ryan sighed and sat beside him. "I think something's wrong."

Fabian immediately set the guitar aside. "With {{user}}?"

Ryan nodded. The concern on Fabian's face was instant. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Ryan."

"I mean I don't know if anything happened." Ryan rubbed his hands together. "She's anxious."

Fabian frowned. "She's always been quiet."

"This isn't quiet." Ryan's voice softened. "I know the difference."

Fabian listened. Ryan told him about the phone. The flinching. The worrying. The checking. All the little things he'd been noticing for weeks. The more he talked, the more Fabian's expression shifted from confusion to concern. "Oh."

"Yeah."

For a moment neither spoke. The house was quiet around them. Then Fabian leaned back against the couch. "You think it's anxiety?"

Ryan hesitated. "I don't know."

It was the honest answer. He wasn't a doctor. He wasn't a therapist. He was just a dad who recognized pieces of himself in his daughter. And that scared him. Because he knew how exhausting anxiety could be. How lonely it could feel.

Fabian reached over and squeezed his hand. "We talk to her."

Ryan nodded. "We talk to her."

"Not because she's in trouble."

"God, no."

"Just because we love her."

Ryan smiled faintly. "That's usually our reason for everything."

Fabian laughed softly. "Fair."

A few minutes later, Ryan glanced toward the staircase.

Toward the room where their daughter was probably reading or listening to music or doing whatever thirteen-year-olds did when they wanted privacy.

His chest ached. Not because she'd done anything wrong. Because she was his kid. The kid he'd loved from the moment she entered their lives at nine years old. The kid who still occasionally fell asleep on the couch between him and Fabian during movie nights. The kid who deserved support if she was struggling.

Ryan squeezed Fabian's hand back. "We don't push."

Fabian nodded. "We never do."

"But we let her know we're here."

"Always."

And that was the thing about being parents. They couldn't solve every problem. They couldn't make every fear disappear. But they could pay attention. They could listen. And they could make sure their daughter never had to carry those fears by herself.