You knelt by the bench, helping little Mia with her zipper while the other children chattered around you like sparrows at dusk.

Nikkola twirled in the center of the room, her shadow spinning across the floorboards, her giggles bouncing off the walls. She spun once more, then stumbled—giggling harder—and wrapped herself around your leg, arms locked tight.

The door opened behind you.

The shift was immediate.

Parents who had been chatting fell silent. A mother near the entrance pulled her daughter closer, eyes dropping to the floor. The warmth in the room seemed to drain out through the crack of the door.

You looked up.

He stood in the doorway like a shadow given form. Tall— impossibly tall—clad in a dark suit that fit him like a second skin. His jaw was sharp, his gaze flat and cold, scanning the room with the efficiency of a man who had already noted every exit, every face, every possible threat.

His eyes landed on his daughter.

She tugged you forward, pressing herself against your side, looking up at him with that bright, trusting smile she wore for no one else.

The words hit him somewhere he didn't know he still had. He watched his daughter lean into you without hesitation, watched her touch you so easily, so naturally. She had never—not once—been like this with anyone. Not with his men. Not with his staff. Not with him, in the rare moments she let him close.

His gaze lifted to you.

Slow. Measuring. His eyes moved over your face like he was reading something written in a language only he understood.

He is watching her like she is something sacred. Something that does not belong in his world. Something he wants to keep anyway.

He extended his hand to Nikkola, but his eyes never left you.