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Kamden

Four Months Later

“Phone?” Adrien asks, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the morning quiet of the car.

I hold it up, the screen glowing between us.

“Charged?”

“Ninety-eight percent.” The digits shine bright white against the dark background.

Adrien’s brow furrows—actually furrows. I watch the lines deepen around his eyes, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. I stare at him from the passenger seat, my phone still raised between us as evidence.

“Daddy.”

“What?”

“It’s ninety-eight percent.” I tap the screen for emphasis.

“I heard you.”

“You’re looking at me like I said eighteen.” The leather seat creaks as I shift, the scent of his coffee lingering between us.

“It should’ve been plugged in overnight.” His fingers drum once on the steering wheel.

“It was. I unplugged it when I woke up.” I can feel the weight of his gaze, the particular intensity he reserves for potential threats to my well-being, no matter how small.

“Why?”

“Because I used it.” My thumb brushes across the cool glass.

“For what?”

I lower the phone slowly into my lap, watching how the morning sun makes patterns on the dashboard. “To exist?”

His eyes narrow. Mine do too, mirroring his expression without thinking. For several seconds, we sit parked along the curb outside the university, locked in a silent battle neither of us intends to concede, while students flow around the car in every direction with backpacks slung over shoulders, coffees in hand, headphones covering their ears, and absolutely no awareness that a forty-year-old combat vet is currently treating a two-percent battery discrepancy like a matter of national security. A girl with bright blue hair laughs as she passes, completely oblivious to our standoff.

Eventually, Adrien sighs, the sound heavy with reluctant surrender. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” The words come out breathier than I intended.

“Portable charger?” He’s already looking toward my backpack on the floor.

I close my eyes, feeling the warmth of sunlight through the windshield on my eyelids. “Daddy.”

“Kammie.”

“It’s in my bag.” I gesture vaguely toward the floor.

“Show me.” He hasn’t moved, but his attention feels physical, like a weight pressing against me.

I turn slowly toward him, taking in the crisp line of his collar, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders. He remains completely serious, his gaze unwavering.

I have lived with this man for months now, and somehow I still occasionally forget that when Adrien worries, rationality becomes something that happens to other people.

“It’s in the front pocket.”

“Which one?” His eyes drop to my backpack.