Page 34 of Pucking Daddy

“Say it back.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “It’s not because of me.”

“Again.”

“It’s not because of me.”

“Good.”

I hold her close and feel her relax by degrees, little by little.

Underneath the calm I’m giving her, my own thoughts run darker.

This is exactly what I mean when I say I need stability.

A house where calls happen when they’re supposed to happen. Where pickup is on time. Where bedtimes are normal and lunches get packed and one adult’s chaos doesn’t become a child’s job to absorb.

“You’re my favorite daddy,” she murmurs against my shoulder.

I snort softly. “I’d be offended if I had competition.”

“You don’t.”

“Glad we cleared that up.”

She giggles, and the sound loosens something in my chest that had gone hard.

I press another kiss to her forehead. “Want to show me what you built?”

“Yes.” She starts to scramble down, then pauses. “Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re having a hard day too?”

The question catches me off guard hard enough that I go still.

Kids know. Always.

I brush a thumb over her cheek. “A little.”

She considers that with the grave seriousness only children can manage. Then she leans in and kisses my jaw.

“There,” she says. “Better.”

Something hot and fierce moves through my chest.

“Yeah,” I say roughly. “Better.”

And when I glance up, I realize we’re not alone anymore.

Zara stands in the doorway, quiet and still, one hand resting lightly against the frame.

I don’t know how long she’s been there or what she’s heard, but the way she watches us—silent, unreadable—makes something in my chest tighten.

7

ZARA