Dorothy Noelle Styles.

My baby girl. My baby Dot.

You and I had her when we were only fifteen—just bloody kids ourselves. And yet, here she is, sixteen now, with that same fire in her eyes that I fell in love with in you. But over my dead body will our daughter end up teen parents like us.

Being thirty one years old with a sixteen year old daughter has given me too many grey hairs.

She has similarities to you, but god, she’s the double of me personality wise, and she stole my entire face. Even has my curls.

Dottie is my karma. I love her more than anything, it bleeds out in anger and protectiveness and I can’t control it.

She’s still my baby Dot no matter how grown and defiant she is.

Stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Heart too big for her own good. And right now, all I can think about is how some little prick thinks he can touch my daughter.

“Harry,” you warn softly from the kitchen doorway, like you already know where this is heading.

“She’s not goin’ anywhere with him,” I mutter, jaw clenched so tight it could crack. “I don’t care what she said.”

“Dad, I like him!” Dottie snaps, throwing her hands in the air. She’s got her arms crossed, leaning against the wall like she owns the bloody place. Christ, she even stands like me. “You don’t even know him!”

“I don’t need to,” I shoot back. “He’s a teenage boy. I was one. Trust me, Dottie, I know exactly what’s goin’ through his head.”

Her brown eyes narrow — your eyes, not mine — and I can see the storm brewing behind them. “You’re unbelievable,” she mutters. “You act like I’m five!”

“You act like you’re grown, Dottie, but you’re not. Not yet.”

She groans, pacing the living room floor. “You don’t even try to trust me—”

“It’s not you I don’t trust!” I raise my voice before I can stop myself. “It’s the world! You’ve got no idea what kind of people are out there, what kind of things—”

“Oh my God, you’re so dramatic!” she cuts in, mocking my tone. “What are you gonna do, interrogate him? Bring one of your scary friends to ‘keep an eye’ on us?”

The muscle in my jaw jumps. “If that’s what it takes.”

Her mouth drops open. “You’re such a dickhead, Dad! I hate you!”

I freeze. She’s shouted and screamed at me before, but she’s never called me that. I’m the most feared man in London, nobody dares to speak to me like that

Except my teenage daughter.

You gasp, slapping a hand over your mouth. “Dot!”

My jaw ticks, eyes locked on my sharp tongued teenage daughter. “Dorothy Noelle Styles, what the fuck did you just call me?”