Chapter 25

RAIN'S POV

By the time we get home, Kaia is still soft around the edges.

She's not crying or being dramatic, She's not even trying to charm her way out of it anymore, She's just... subdued. And that almost gets me worse than the lie itself.

Because yes, she pretended to be sick so the school would call us. Yes, this is the third time in two weeks. And yes, I am absolutely going to have to deal with the fact that apparently everyone except Phi knew she'd been faking and had been indulging her anyway.

Which means I'm not just irritated with her.

I'm irritated with all of them.

Win and Saifah are already by the entrance when I pull up, leaning there like they've been waiting for a show. Their grins tell me enough before they even speak.

I unbuckle Kaia slowly, watching her face in the rearview mirror first. She's not bouncing back the way she normally does after getting what she wants. No mischievous spark or smug little smile.

Good, maybe this one shows how serious this is.

I lift her out of the car seat and settle her on her feet, one hand resting lightly at her back as we walk toward the house.

Then Win's voice cuts through the quiet. "Kai Bear! Sick again today?"

I'm already turning to glare at him when I feel her stiffen beside me.

She bites her lip and for a split second, I think she's about to do what she always does—double down, pout, play it up, make a little performance out of it.

Instead, she shakes her head in a amall, guilty and honest way.

"No, Uncle Win."

The silence that follows is almost funny.

I look at her.

Saifah looks at her.

Even Win blinks like he wasn't expecting that.

Well.

There it is.

My daughter does learn after all.

I don't say anything right then. I just place my hand on the back of her head and guide her inside. I can feel the weight of it hanging over her now. Not fear exactly—Phi isn't home yet—but conscience. The slow, dawning understanding that this wasn't cute anymore. That she pushed too far.

And my heart...My heart is already softening, even though I know I shouldn't let it too fast.

I take her upstairs without another word. Into her room, and out of her uniform. The whole time she's quiet, letting me undo buttons, slide her shirt off, peel her socks away. No chatter, no random questions, no stories about school.

I hate it immediately.

I hate when she goes quiet.

I hate it most when I know I'm the reason.

By the time I get her into the bathroom, she's still watching me with those big eyes, all solemn and careful, like she's measuring how upset I really am.

I kneel at the tub, sleeves already damp, and start washing shampoo through her curls. She sits there small and warm and slippery under my hands, and then, so quietly I almost miss it, she murmurs—

"I'm sorry, Papa."

My hand stills in her hair.

And something in my chest just caves.

Because she means it and not in that automatic way kids do when they just want the discomfort over with.

She really  means it.

I keep washing her hair because if I look at her too fast, I'll melt completely.

"I know, baby," I say softly.

She doesn't answer.

I rinse the shampoo out, then run the wash cloth gently over her shoulders, her arms, her little knees, and she says it again, barely above the water sounds.

"I'm sorry, Papa."

This time I look at her. At the way her mouth is turned down, at the way she won't quite hold my eyes for too long because she already thinks she's in trouble.

And I hate it.

I hate that she feels bad.

Even when she should learn. Even when she does need to understand.

She's five.

Just five.

"I'm not mad, baby," I tell her, setting the cloth aside and cupping her wet cheek. "Okay?"

She looks at me like she wants to believe that but isn't fully convinced yet.

Of course.

Because I did scold her and I should have, because she scared us.

I smooth her hair back from her forehead, gentler now.

"You can't lie about being sick," I say quietly. "That part is serious. I and Dada need to know when something is really wrong, okay?"

She nods immediately. "Okay."

"And you can't keep tricking school to call us."

Another nod. Smaller this time. "Okay."

I exhale softly, then I decide to throw her a bridge.

A way back.

"Okay," I say, my tone shifting just enough for her to notice. "To show you I'm not really mad... you can watch one cartoon while you eat lunch. Deal?"

Her whole face changes.

Like sunlight breaking through cloud.

She grins so fast it almost gives me whiplash, nodding so hard her wet curls bounce and flick water straight onto my face.

I laugh despite myself, wiping my cheek.

"There she is," I murmur.

She giggles now, the guilt loosening off her in little pieces, and I point at her sternly even though I'm smiling. "One cartoon."

"One cartoon," she repeats dutifully.

"Not two."

She gasps like I've insulted her integrity. "Papa."

I snort. "Give me a kiss then."

That's all the invitation she needs.

She lunges forward immediately, tiny wet hands grabbing my face as she peppers messy kisses all over my cheeks, my chin, the corner of my mouth, laughing the whole time.

I let her.

Because she's mine and because even when she drives me insane, even when she lies, even when she pulls stunts to get us running to her—She still folds into me like I'm home.

And I'll never be strong enough not to kiss her back.

****

By the time she's halfway through lunch, she's softer again.

Not fully back to herself yet, but close enough that I can feel the storm passing.

She sits beside me at the kitchen island in fresh clothes, swinging her little legs, spoon in hand, explaining the cartoon I put on for her with all the seriousness of a legal briefing.

Every few bites she points at the screen and tells me which character is good and which one is bad, and then, because this is still sitting heavy in her somewhere, she keeps circling back to it.

"That one lied," she says around a bite of rice. "That's bad."

"It is," I say, chopping vegetables without looking up.

"And that one listened to her mama."

"That's good too."

She nods, satisfied with that, then adds quietly, "I won't lie again."

My hand stills just for a second over the cutting board.

I look at her then. Her curls are still a little damp from her bath, cheeks warm, lashes thick against skin that still has that post-cry softness to it even though she never really cried. She's trying so hard to be good now, to prove she understood, and it does something terrible to my heart.

"I know, baby," I say gently. "And if you ever really don't feel good, you tell your teacher and they call me and Dada, okay?"

She nods immediately. "Okay."

"And if you miss us?"

Her spoon slows. "I can tell teacher too?"

I smile despite myself. "You can tell teacher you miss us. That doesn't mean you get to go home, though."

She giggles, ducking her head, caught. "Okay, Papa."

I reach over and smooth her hair back, then go back to dinner prep.

Because dinner still has to happen, and because if I let the day fully swallow me, I'll start thinking about the weekend.

Rocky's birthday.

The party.

I close my eyes for a second just imagining the chaos.

No.

Not yet.

I'm keeping the peace while I still have it.

So I let the kitchen fill with ordinary things instead—knife against board, the soft sound of the cartoon in the background, Kaia's running commentary as she finishes lunch and points out moral lessons like she's suddenly become an expert in ethics after one guilty afternoon.

By the time lunch is done, she's brightened enough that I know the guilt has eased. Not vanished completely, but settled into understanding instead of fear, which is all I wanted in the first place.

We go upstairs after, and I let her drag me into play the way she always does when she's trying to reconnect after being scolded. Dolls. Blankets. A stuffed-animal tea party that somehow turns into me being assigned three separate roles I'm apparently performing badly.

"Papa, no," she says, deeply disappointed in me. "Bunny does not talk like that."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I mutter dryly. "I didn't realize Bunny had standards."

"She does," Kaia says seriously, already rearranging the toys with tyrannical precision.

So I play.

And then I chase her and then I let her chase me.

And then I spend a full fifteen minutes pretending not to catch her while she squeals through her room and across the hall, slowing down little by little the way she always does when she's getting sleepy but refusing to admit it.

By the time she finally crawls into bed for her nap, clutching her plushie and rubbing at one eye, she's almost falling asleep mid-sentence.

I tuck her in, kiss her forehead, and stay there stroking her hair until her breathing evens out and the room goes still and only then do I leave.

The house feels different when she's asleep.

Still full and warm, but quieter in a way that makes room for my own mind again.

I go back downstairs, grab my iPad, and settle in to get some work done while I wait for Phi.

Burmese ports first.

Numbers, timelines, correspondence, the kind of work that steadies me because it asks for precision instead of emotion. But even while I work, part of my mind stays split—half on the screen, half listening for the sound of a car pulling in, boots in the foyer, his voice carrying through the house.

Because no matter what the day looked like before he left, and no matter how much chaos Kaia and I manage to create while he's gone—I still wait for him.

I always do.

Phayu's POV

I get home later than I wanted, later than I told Rain.

Later than Kaia probably expected too, though she never says it like that. She just waits in her own way—asking every thirty minutes when I'll be back, making the staff answer questions they already know the answer to, keeping one ear turned toward the door even when she's laughing.

The house is alive when I walk in. Maids move through the hall with folded laundry and trays, guards shift positions near the entrance, low voices drift from the deeper parts of the house. It's the familiar rhythm of our home at this hour.

I loosen my shoulders as I step inside, the tension of the day still clinging to me in places I don't like to acknowledge. Meetings that dragged, numbers that had to be reworked, men who needed reminding, calls from three different time zones. The kind of day that leaves me with too much noise in my head and nowhere to put it.

Then I hear them.

Rain's laugh first, then Kaia's, bright and unfiltered, cutting right through everything else.

The sound pulls something tight in my chest loose before I even reach the kitchen.

When I step into the doorway, I stop for half a second just to take it in.

Rain is standing at the island with P'Cherry, both of them looking over something on the counter—vegetables, a bowl, seasoning, something half-prepped and domestic and so ordinary it feels almost surreal against the rest of my life. Kaia is perched on the counter between them, little legs swinging, fully involved in whatever decision is currently being treated like high strategy.

Her curls are loose around her face again. She must have had her nap. She's in soft house clothes now, cheeks still a little full from sleep, and she's pointing at something with the absolute seriousness only a child can bring to choosing ingredients.

Then she sees me and her entire face changes.

"Dada!"

She starts wiggling off the counter before anyone can stop her, pure excitement, no thought at all to gravity or balance.

I cross the room in three strides and catch her just before she can launch herself wrong. My hands close around her waist and I lift her clean off the counter, pulling her into me.

"Easy," I murmur, though I'm already smiling.

She crashes into my chest like she hasn't seen me in a week instead of half a day, arms around my neck, legs kicking once with leftover excitement.

"You're home!"

"I am," I say, breathing her in automatically. Shampoo, crayons, sugar, something on her hands that smells faintly like fruit. "What gave it away?"

She giggles into my shoulder and squeezes harder.

I hold her there for a second longer than necessary. Because no matter what the day has been, no matter how much of myself I've had to spend on other things, this is the part that gives something back.

Kaia wraps herself tighter around my neck, warm and soft and entirely mine. Her little voice right against my jaw.

"I missed you, Dada."

"I missed you too, Tiger," I murmur, pressing a kiss into her hair.

And I do. More than I ever say plainly.

The house can be full, the day can be productive, everything can go exactly the way it should, and still there is a very specific emptiness when I haven't had her in my arms.

When I finally look up, Rain is already watching me.

He's leaned back against the island, one hip braced there, dish towel in hand. He's changed too—house clothes, hair pushed back, sleeves rolled up. He looks like he's spent the afternoon doing exactly what I know he did: handling work in one hand, our daughter in the other, and still somehow keeping the entire house feeling like something warm to come back to.

P'Cherry notices my eyes on Rain and smiles to herself, subtle and entirely unsurprised. She's seen too much of us over the years to be fazed by anything.

"You're late," he says.

There's no real bite in it. Just the small claim of someone who counts the hours I'm gone.

I shift Kaia higher on my hip and hold his gaze. "I'm home."

And that's the answer, really. Not an apology or an excuse, but it's the only thing that matters.

His mouth twitches, like he wants to keep up the pretense of annoyance on principle, but it doesn't stick. Not when I'm already crossing to him and not when I reach him and hook my hand around his waist, drawing him into me with that familiar pull that says come here without words.

I kiss him.

Not enough for what I actually want, just enough to mark the moment, to feel him soften against me, to breathe him in after too many hours away.

"Hi," he murmurs when I pull back, voice warm and low.

"Hi, beautiful."

His hand settles briefly against my chest, then slides up, fingers brushing the line of my collar as he searches my face.

"Long day?"

"Too long."

P'Cherry reads the room with the skill of a woman who has worked in this house long enough to understand when she's standing in the middle of something private. She clears her throat lightly, gives Rain a look that says dinner is under control, then excuses herself with Kaia's earlier herbs and fish decision apparently settled enough to survive without us.

The moment she's gone, Rain leans into me properly.

A strand of his hair has escaped the bun he put it in, curling loose against his cheek. I lift my hand and smooth it back, thumb brushing his temple, then the shell of his ear, slower than I need to. He melts into the touch in that quiet way he does when he's tired but trying not to show it.

"Go upstairs," he says softly. "Go shower and rest. I'll call you down for dinner."

For a second I just look at him.

At the care in it. The authority too, gentle but there, like he's already decided the state I'm in and what to do about it.

I nod once.

He leans up and kisses me again, brief and sweet, and then, quieter, against my mouth—

"Missed you."

It should not hit me the way it does after all this time.

But it does, every time.

I smile, "I know."

Then I look down at Kaia, who has been watching this entire exchange with the grave interest.

I reach for her, brushing my fingers over her arm. "Let me go freshen up, okay?"

She studies me for a moment, then Rain, then me again, as if she's deciding whether to allow it.

Finally she nods, solemn. "Okay. But come back fast."

I huff a quiet laugh and kiss her forehead once more.

"Always."

I stay there for another moment before setting Kaia carefully back onto the counter, my hand lingering at her waist until I'm sure she's steady.

"No jumping," I tell her.

She nods with all the solemn dishonesty of a child who absolutely intends to forget that instruction in under five minutes.

I lean down and steal a kiss from Rain before he can turn away.

**********

I'm just tugging my T-shirt down into place when there's a soft knock at the bedroom door.

I already know who it is before I even turn.

I step out of the closet, and sure enough, Kaia is peeking around the door, just her face and a tumble of blonde curls visible.

"Dada?"

My mouth softens immediately. "Come in, baby."

That's all she needs.

She grins and darts inside, bare feet pattering across the floor as she runs straight to me like she belongs wherever I am. I bend automatically, hands already out for her, but she stops right in front of me and tilts her head up first.

"Is dinner ready?" I ask, because that's the only reason I can think she'd leave Rain's side right now.

She shakes her head.

No.

So that's not it.

I look at her properly then—at the way she's hovering, all bright eyes and quiet want, and I understand.

She just wants me.

That's all.

No emergency or request or even hidden motive.

She Just wants  me.

Something in my chest gives in that quiet, dangerous way it always does when it comes to her.

I bend and lift her into my arms, settling her easily against me, and she goes soft immediately, curling in without a word like this was the outcome she expected all along.

"Okay," I murmur, kissing her temple. "Let's go see what Papa's doing."

I carry her downstairs, one hand braced under her legs, the other resting between her shoulder blades. She plays absently with the collar of my T-shirt as we go, half talking, half humming to herself, entirely content now that she's attached herself to me again.

When we reach the kitchen, I stop at the doorway and glance in.

P'Cherry is back, standing beside Rain while he finishes whatever he's doing at the counter. The whole room smells warm—garlic, butter, something roasting. Rain looks up when he notices us, his eyes going first to Kaia in my arms, then to me.

"Need help?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "All good."

Then he looks at Kaia, then back at me, and I can see it click—she just wanted company, wanted to orbit one of us while she waited.

"I'll be outside with her," I say.

Rain's mouth curves, small and soft, and he just shakes his head like neither of us are surprising anymore.

I hold his gaze for another second, then turn with Kaia still in my arms and head for the back doors, taking my daughter and her small, wordless need for me out into the evening.

The compound is quieter now, evening settling in properly, the air cooler than it was earlier.

I set her down once we hit the path and she immediately slips her hand into mine, fingers tiny and warm, skipping beside me with that loose-limbed happiness only children seem capable of after a long day.

She hums as we walk, some half-remembered song from a cartoon, then breaks off to chatter about absolutely nothing and everything— how the sky looks purple, how she thinks Papa is cooking something "buttery."

I listen as I always do.

We head toward the garage, and the moment we step inside her energy heightens. Her eyes go straight to it before I even reach for it—her little bike parked beside mine, black with those pink details she was so proud of the day I gave it to her, the matching helmet resting on the shelf nearby like it belongs in the same lineup as the rest of my machines.

Her whole face changes.

I crouch in front of her and hold her gaze. "Wanna ride with me?"

She nods so fast it nearly takes her balance with it.

"Yes!"

I laugh under my breath and reach for the helmet first. She goes still for me immediately, lifting her chin with exaggerated seriousness while I fit it over her curls and fasten the strap carefully beneath her jaw. My fingers linger there for a second, checking the fit, tugging lightly to make sure it's secure.

"Too tight?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No Dada."

"Good."

I lift her then and place her gently onto the little mechanical bike, steadying it with one hand while the other adjusts her grip on the handlebars. She sits straighter at once, chest out, eyes bright, already imagining herself ten years older and twice as dangerous.

"This," I say, tapping one control lightly, "is for starting."

She watches my hand like I'm showing her state secrets.

"This one controls the speed. Slow only, understand?"

She nods solemnly.

"No pretending you didn't hear me because you're little storm."

That makes her grin. "I hear you Dada"

I touch the brake next, then guide her fingers over it. "And this is the important one. You stop before you get afraid. Not after."

She repeats it under her breath the way she does when she's trying hard to remember something. "Stop before I get afraid."

"Good girl."

I straighten just enough to switch the bike on.

The small mechanical hum comes alive beneath her, and her eyes widen instantly, shoulders tensing with delight. Her fingers clutch the handlebars tighter, and for a moment she doesn't even move—just sits there feeling the machine wake up under her, feeling the possibility of it.

I put a steadying hand at the back of the seat and lean down near her ear.

"Easy, little storm," I murmur. "I've got you."

We go around the compound slowly at first.

Very slowly.

She sits so straight on the little bike it almost makes me laugh, shoulders squared, jaw set, face fierce with concentration like she's in the middle of a championship race instead of wobbling through first speed under the watch of half the household.

She doesn't look at me much. Not because she's ignoring me—because she's trying so hard not to mess up. Trying so hard to do it right.

It's unlike her actual bicycle. Different weight. Different response. More machine than toy. But my daughter is smart. Too smart sometimes.

I can practically see her figuring it out in real time, adjusting to the hum beneath her, to the drag and give of the controls, to the way balance feels when it isn't just her own body doing the work.

"Easy," I call out, walking beside her, one hand still ready at the back of the seat even when I barely need it anymore. "Don't fight it. Feel it."

She nods once, lips pressed tight, eyes fixed ahead.

The bike jerks a little.

Then smooths.

She corrects.

Good.

"Atta girl," I murmur, more to myself than to her.

We make one slow round of the inner drive. Then another. By the second loop she isn't gripping the handlebars like she's about to throttle the thing into submission. By the third, she starts to trust it a little.

And then—It clicks.

I see it happen.

Her shoulders drop, the tightness leaves her elbows. The bike rolls cleanly under her at first speed and she realizes, all at once, that she's doing it.

Her face breaks open into the brightest grin.

Pure joy.

Wild and unguarded.

And my heart—Fuck.

It clenches so hard it almost hurts.

I love her so much it feels violent sometimes, like my chest isn't built to contain it properly.

"Yes!" she shrieks, laughing now, looking over at me for the first time instead of the road. "Dada, look! Look!"

"I'm looking, baby," I say, and I'm smiling so hard my face actually aches. "Eyes ahead though. Don't crash while celebrating."

She giggles and corrects immediately, but the grin never leaves her face.

Around us, a few of my men have stopped pretending not to watch. Guards posted near the outer wall, two mechanics by the garage, one of the house staff carrying crates from the side entrance—they're all looking now. Not staring in that careless way people stare at something cute. Watching with the kind of pride men don't usually know how to soften.

Because she's not just a child to them.

She's our child.

And when she lets out another triumphant cheer after managing the next turn cleaner than the first, I hear one of the guards clap once under his breath. Another mutters, "Good girl," like he can't help it.

I straighten, watching her make another pass, a little more confident now, a little less afraid of disappointing me.

That part gets me too.

The way she cares what I think, the way she wants to do well for me.

I walk back toward the garage, eyes never leaving her. "Keep circling," I call out. "Slow. Don't go too fast."

"I'm not going fast!" she yells back immediately, which means she is.

I snort and head inside.

My bike is where I left it, black and gleaming under the overhead lights, the engine cold. I wheel it out myself. The men nearby step aside automatically. No one says anything, but I can feel the energy shift—everyone already knows what I'm about to do.

I swing a leg over and start it.

The sound fills the compound at once, deeper and stronger than the little mechanical hum of hers. Kaia's head snaps around, her whole face lighting up again when she sees me.

"Dada!"

I roll forward slowly, bringing the bike alongside her. Matching her speed and she laughs so hard she almost forgets to steer.

"Eyes ahead," I remind her again, dry.

She corrects, still grinning, helmet slightly crooked now from all the excitement.

And then we ride.

Side by side.

Her on that tiny bike, fierce and proud and still a little wobbly around the corners.

Me beside her on mine, one hand loose on the throttle, the other ready if she needs me, pacing her like I'll pace her through everything if I have to.

The compound opens ahead of us in warm evening light. Gravel under the tyres. The house glowing behind us. Men stepping back to give her room. Her laughter rising every time she gets a turn right.

She looks so small next to me.

So new.

So determined.

And I know, with that strange certainty parenthood gives you in flashes, that I'll remember this exact picture for the rest of my life—her little storm face under that helmet, her mouth split in victory, the way she kept glancing at me just to make sure I was still there.

I will be, always.

...

I know the exact second Rain steps outside.

I don't even have to turn at first—I feel it in the shift of the air, in the way Kaia's focus breaks, in the instinct that makes me look toward the front of the house.

And there he is.

He stops just beyond the steps, and his eyes widen immediately.

Because somewhere between me taking our daughter outside and now, she's gone from clinging to my hand to riding a bike around the compound like she was born for it.

Rain just stands there for a second, taking in the whole picture—me pacing her on my bike, Kaia in that tiny helmet, her little face fierce with concentration and joy—and then he shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Kaia spots him a second later.

"Papa!"

She cheers so loudly and turns so fast to look at him that the front wheel jerks.

The bike wobbles hard.

Rain takes a step forward instantly, alarm flashing across his face, but I'm already there, voice cutting through before panic can set in.

"Careful, Tiger," I call out. "Papa can see you just fine. Eyes ahead."

She corrects, breathless and laughing, and keeps moving.

Rain presses a hand briefly to his chest like she's just stolen a year off his life.

RAIN'S POV

After I finished cooking, and told P'Cherry to keep an eye on the stove for a minute, and head outside to check on Phi and Kaia

My husband and my daughter.

I make it through the doors and stop short.

Kaia is riding her new bike.

And Phi is on his, trailing right beside her like a dark shadow, like if she tips even an inch too far he'll be there before gravity can do its job.

My heart shoots into my throat so fast it almost hurts.

For one stupid second all I see is danger.

The wobble of handlebars. The speed. Her tiny body on something mechanical and bigger than her. The memory of the day he got it for her flashes through me—how proud she was, how furious I was, how he looked at me like I was ruining the surprise when all I could think was she's too small, Phi, she's too small.

That was only a few weeks before her kidnapping.

Before everything went to shit.

Before I learned how quickly a normal day can split open and become the worst day of your life.

Flashback when Kaia got her bike...

I pull into the drive after school pickup, Kaia humming to herself in the back seat, singing off-key to her iPad, I see them.

Phi. Win. Saifah. All standing near the garage.

And between them, gleaming under the afternoon sun, is—

A miniature bike.

My stomach drops. I haven't even put the car in park before I'm narrowing my eyes, watching Phi grin like a schoolboy who knows damn well he's about to get caught.

I kill the engine, get out, and come around to Kaia's side just as he starts walking over.

"Hi, beautiful," he says smoothly, cocky as hell, like he doesn't have a scaled-down death machine parked behind him.

I open the door and unclip Kaia's seatbelt, lifting her gently. "We're home, Princess."

Phi reaches us just as she looks up, and her whole face lights up. "Dada! You're home!"

She throws her arms around his neck, and he scoops her up effortlessly, like he didn't just set me up for a full-blown lecture.

He kisses her cheek, then leans in toward me.

I don't move.

My eyes flick once more to the bike, then back to him. "Phi."

He smiles. "Let me explain."

Kaia's already in Phi's arms, talking his ears off—something about her classmate spilling juice and a drawing she made and how she was the line leader today. He listens like she's reciting the blueprint of the universe, nodding along with a proud grin.

Then Win calls out, loud and smug, "Kai Bear!"

She squeals, wiggling down from Phi's arms and running straight for them. But she stops short, eyes landing on the tiny bike parked just beside them.

"Woah!" she breathes. "That's a bike like Dada's! But... it's too small for him."

The bike is sleek, black with dashes of pink—on the handles, around the seat, under the rims. The matching helmet gleams on the seat, matte black with a soft pink streak down the center. It's undeniably hers.

Phi moves up beside me, casual. "It's for you, Tiger," he calls out.

Kaia gasps, spinning around. "For me?! Dada?!"

I turn to him sharply, eyes wide. "You got our daughter a bike?"

He shrugs like I just asked if he bought her socks. "Kids start riding from like three years old. She should learn."

"Phi—"

"She loves bikes," he adds. "She's been asking since she was two."

I stare at him.

"It's safe," he says quickly, hands raised. "Low speed cap. Auto balance. Built-in tracker. Helmet with smart tech. I promise."

I keep staring.

"She's not gonna be on the street, baby," he says softer, stepping closer. "Just the compound. With me. Always."

I glance over to where she's standing—tiny hands hovering over the bike like it's made of glass, reverent and glowing.

She looks so happy.

And I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. "...She's not riding alone."

"She won't," he says immediately. "She'll be with me."

I shoot him a look. "Helmet every time."

"Yes, Papa," he mocks, kissing my cheek. "Anything else?"

"One scratch on her and I'll burn your entire garage down."

He grins. "God, I love you."

I glare at him and we walk over to where she's crouched beside the bike, eyes wide, hands hovering over the pink accents. Win's pointing out the stabilizers, explaining how the brakes work, while Saifah adjusts the helmet strap and tells her she looks "cooler than all the boys at the track."

Phi crouches beside her, quiet for a second, just watching her glow.

"You like it?" he asks, voice low, almost shy under the weight of her reaction.

She doesn't hesitate.

She launches herself at him, arms flung around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance. "Yes, Dada! Thank you! I love you the most in the whole wide world!"

He holds her tight, laughing, forehead against her shoulder.

++++

So my body reacts before my mind does. I nearly step forward, chest tight, already ready to call out for him to stop, for her to slow down, for the whole thing to end before she falls and skins a knee and I lose my mind over something minor because I can't stop seeing all the major things that almost took her from us.

Then Kaia laughs.

And that laugh cuts through all of it.

She's going slowly. Much slower than my panic first told me. Her shoulders are stiff with concentration, her little face set in that fierce stubborn look she gets when she wants to prove herself, and Phi—Phi is not just beside her, he's watching every movement. His bike matches hers.

She cheers when she gets a turn right, and one of the guards by the edge of the compound claps softly like he can't help it.

My pulse starts to come down.

Only a little.

I stand there on the terrace, one hand still braced against the doorframe, and watch as they make another loop around the compound. The evening light catches her helmet, the black and pink of it flashing each time she turns her head. She looks so tiny beside him. So small next to the heavy black of his bike, next to his broad shoulders and easy control.

But she also looks...

Happy.

God.

She looks happy.

And proud of herself in that open, unguarded way children are when they know they're doing something well and everyone they love is watching.

I press my hand flatter against my chest and let out a slow breath.

I remember that day again when he brought the bike home and now here they are.

Phi peels away from her then and rides toward the house, the engine of his bike low and steady against the evening quiet, until he stops in front of me and plants one boot on the ground.

PHAYU'S POV

"Hey."

He looks at me like I've personally engineered this moment to shorten his lifespan.

"Phi," he says, somewhere between exasperated and impressed, "you're insane."

I shrug one shoulder, not even pretending remorse. "She's gotten the hang of it."

Rain glances back toward Kaia, who is now doing another lap with all the self-importance of a tiny racer under supervision.

"She can ride a bicycle," he says, like that should've been enough. "Why does she need this?"

"Because this is better," I reply simply. "No training wheels. Better balance. Better instincts."

Rain sighs the way he always does when I say something that makes sense and annoys him at the same time. Then his expression shifts, softening only enough to become serious.

"You need to talk to her about the fake illness."

That pulls something else out of me entirely.

I exhale and lean back slightly on the bike. "I'm sure you already have."

"I have."

"Then do I have to?"

His head turns so abruptly back to me I almost smile, The glare he gives me is sharp enough to draw blood.

"Yes," he says flatly. "I cannot be the only one scolding her, Phi."

I grimace a little, because he's not wrong, he just says it in a way that makes me feel like I'm being assigned a duty I absolutely don't want.

Rain folds his arms over his chest. "You need to stop letting her eyes get to you."

That makes me snort. "But you use your eyes to get to me too."

He smacks my chest before I can even fully grin, the sound light but indignant.

"That's different."

I look at him.

He looks at me.

We both know exactly how weak that argument is.

Rain narrows his eyes further. "She's five, Phi. She'll cry, wipe her tears, and survive. Stop acting like scolding her is going to break her heart forever."

I look past him, toward Kaia making another careful turn at the edge of the drive, her little mouth set in concentration again. For a moment, I just watch her.

"It might," I mutter.

Rain actually laughs, then he steps closer, one hand on my arm, grounding and warm and annoyingly right.

"It won't," he says more softly now. "It teaches her we mean what we say. That lying about being sick is serious. She already feels bad, Phi. You don't have to terrify her. Just be her parent."

I sigh.

Because he is absolutely right, and I hate when he's right about the things I can't charm my way around.

"She's going to cry," I say.

Rain lifts a brow. "Probably."

"And then she's going to look at me like I kicked her Bunny."

"Probably."

"And you're just standing there letting this happen to me?"

That finally makes him smile properly. "Yes."

I stare at him for a second, then shake my head and laugh under my breath.

Cruel man.

My man.

I glance back toward Kaia again. She sees me watching this time and immediately grins, lifting one hand off the handlebar for a wave before grabbing it again when the bike sways.

I point sharply. "Two hands."

"Yes, Dada!"

Rain leans against my shoulder for a brief second, just enough to soften the whole thing.

"You can do it after her ride," he murmurs.

I nod once.

That, I can do...Probably.

Rain studies me like he knows exactly how reluctant I am, then pats my arm like I'm the difficult child in this equation.

"Good."

I catch his wrist before he can step back fully and tug him in, just enough to steal a quick kiss from him there in front of the house, in plain view of anyone paying attention.

He huffs against my mouth, but he kisses me back anyway.

Then he pulls away first, glancing toward Kaia.

"She's showing off now," he says.

I look and she is.

Riding a little straighter, a little faster, because Papa is watching.

I smile despite myself, low and real.

"Yeah," I murmur. "That's my little storm."

...

Too bad Saifah and Win aren't here to see this.

They'd be insufferable about it—cheering too loud, hyping her up until she nearly forgets how to steer, acting like they personally taught her balance and nerve. Kaia would've loved every second of it too. She lives for an audience when she knows she's doing well.

But even with that thought, I can't make myself mind their absence too much.

Because this...This is my time with her.

Just mine.

No interruptions or other hands reaching in. No one else taking a piece of the moment. Just me pacing her around the compound, watching her learn, watching her get braver one lap at a time.

And that matters more than I'll ever say out loud.

We go a little longer than I meant to. Not enough to tire her out fully, but enough that she's flushed beneath the helmet and flying on adrenaline, the kind that turns every sentence into a shout and every success into proof that she's ten feet tall.

Then one of the maids steps out onto the back terrace and calls that dinner is ready.

I lift a hand in acknowledgment and slow my bike, glancing over at Kaia.

"Alright, little storm," I call out. "Bring it in."

She does—more or less. Her turn into the garage is messy, too wide, then corrected too hard, but she gets there. That's the part that matters.

I steer her the last bit with my hand at the back of the seat, then switch the little bike off and help her down carefully. The second both feet hit the ground, she starts bouncing.

Helmet still on, cheeks pink, hands flying as she starts telling me all about the ride like I wasn't there for every second of it.

"Dada, when I turned there—did you see? —and then it went fast but not too fast and then I did the corner and then I did it again and Papa saw and—"

"I saw," I tell her dryly, though I'm smiling before I can stop it.

She doesn't stop, of course. The excitement is too big for her body, so it spills out everywhere—in her voice, in her feet, in the way she keeps grabbing at my hand and tugging me toward the bike like maybe I missed some crucial part of what just happened.

I crouch beside her bike instead.

"Okay," I say, and immediately her attention sharpens. "Now you park your bike like this. Next to mine."

I guide it into place, black beside black, hers smaller, brighter at the edges, but unmistakably part of the same family. I let her see the lineup, let the visual settle in her—my bike, then hers.

Her eyes get wider at that.

Good.

I crouch lower and take off her helmet, loosening the strap carefully and lifting it free so her curls spring back out, slightly flattened and wild.

"You put it here," I say, setting the helmet on the shelf and adjusting it so it rests properly. "Like this."

She leans in, studying it with full seriousness.

Then I turn back to the bike and tap the frame lightly. "And you make sure your bike is always clean."

She nods once.

"If it feels weird," I continue, touching the handlebars, then the seat, then the back wheel, "or sounds weird, you tell me. Or your uncles. Okay?"

She nods again, even more solemn now. "Okay, Dada."

I hold her gaze for a second, making sure she means it.

Then, because I can't help myself, because she's mine and she just had her first real ride and I want this to stick deeper than just excitement, I decide to teach her properly.

I point at the first part. "This?"

She blinks, then answers quickly, "Handlebar."

"Good."

I point lower.

"This?"

"Wheel."

"Which one?"

She squints. "Front wheel."

"Good girl."

I point at the brake lever next.

She hesitates for half a second, then brightens. "Brake."

I nod once, approving, and move down the bike, naming parts, making her repeat them, asking again when she gets one wrong or too vague. Seat. Footrest. Grip. Throttle. Brake. Kickstand. Frame.

She misses two but gets them on the second try.

By the end of it she's standing straighter, answering faster, pride building with every correct word. Not because I'm making it a test exactly, but because she knows this matters to me, and when something matters to me, she wants to rise to it.

I reach out and tap the front of her helmet lightly where it rests on the shelf.

"What's this?"

She grins. "Important."

That makes me laugh.

"Correct," I say. "Most important."

She beams like she's won something.

Then, because she's still five and cannot stay solemn for long, she throws both arms around my neck and nearly topples me where I'm crouched. I catch her easily, one hand at her back.

"Did I do good, Dada?" she asks into my shoulder, suddenly quieter now that the excitement has somewhere soft to land.

I hold her a little tighter.

"Yeah," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You did very good."

Her whole body melts at that.

And for a moment, in the warm garage with our bikes lined up side by side and dinner waiting in the house, it feels like the rest of the world has been pushed back just far enough to let me keep this.

My daughter.

Her first real ride.

Her little voice repeating the names of machine parts like they're sacred.

Mine.

Then I pull her back just enough to look at her properly.

"Papa told me you've been pretending to be sick."

Her whole face falls.

It happens so fast it almost undoes me. One second she's glowing from the ride, all flushed cheeks and victory, and the next her mouth is trembling into a pout, her hands twisting together in front of her like she can somehow knot herself out of trouble.

Argh.

I hate this part.

I hate this far more than the actual discipline.

Because she looks so little all of a sudden. Not the little storm on the bike. Not the fierce daughter of mine who just learned her machine and repeated parts back to me like she was born in the garage.

Just my five-year-old girl.

"I'm sorry, Dada," she says, voice small. "I didn't mean to."

And that—that is enough to gut me.

Rain would say this is exactly the problem. That I fold too fast when it comes to her. That one pout and one apology and I start acting like a conquered nation.

He'd be right.

But still.

I hold her there a second longer, one hand on each of her tiny shoulders, making myself at least try to look like I'm doing what I'm supposed to do.

"Baby," I say, keeping my voice calm, "you can't pretend to be sick just because you miss us or want to come home."

She nods immediately, eyes big and wet but not crying yet.

"You scared Papa," I continue. "And me. When school calls and says something's wrong, we need to know it's real."

Another quick nod, more serious this time.

"I know."

I study her face, looking for resistance, for that little spark that says she's apologizing just to end the conversation. But it isn't there. She means it. She already got the heavier talk from Rain, I know she did. What's left now is the part I'm apparently meant to provide—consistency, consequence, fatherhood with a backbone.

I exhale slowly

"Well," I say, trying for stern and landing somewhere much softer, "don't do it again."

Her little brows pull together. "I won't."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

That should be the moment I add more. A lecture. A clearer consequence. Something Rain can point to later and say, see, you did it too.

Instead, I brush a curl back from her cheek and kiss her forehead.

"Well," I mutter, mostly to myself, "that's enough apocalypse for one day."

She blinks, confused, then smiles just a little because she knows from my tone that the worst of it is over.

Rain does not need to know I didn't rain fire and brimstone down on her tiny ass.

What matters is that she understood. That she won't do it again. That I said the words, more or less, and she looked properly sorry while I said them.

That counts.

Probably.

She leans into me then, small and warm and already forgiven, and I gather her up without thinking, lifting her against my chest. Her arms loop around my neck immediately, trusting, easy.

"Dada?"

"Mm?"

"Are you mad?"

And there it is. The real question. Not whether she's in trouble. Whether I'm still hers.

I hold her tighter.

"No, baby," I say quietly. "I'm not mad."

She melts against me, all the tension leaving her at once.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again, softer now, into my shoulder.

"I know."

Then, because apparently I have learned absolutely nothing from the parenting conversation I just had, I look down at her and lower my voice like I'm letting her in on state secrets.

"If you want to skip school," I tell her, "you tell your teacher to call me. Not Papa. Or Win. You know Win's number, right?"

She nods, smiling now, the whole thing already turning from moral lesson back into conspiracy in her little head.

Of course it is.

"And," I add, because I'm fully committed to making bad decisions now, "if Papa asks if I scolded you, you need to say yes. You cried, and I was very mad and strict. Okay?"

She blinks up at me, then she grins.

Then, with all the calm logic of a child who has just discovered a fatal flaw in an adult argument, she whispers, "But that's lying, Dada."

I stop walking.

Well.

True.

Shit.

I look at her for a second, genuinely caught, and she watches me with that bright, wicked little smile that says she knows she's got me.

"Yeah, well..." I start, buying time I do not have. "It's not really lying because I did scold you."

She keeps looking at me.

Unconvinced.

"Or," I say finally, regrouping with as much dignity as I can scrape together, "do you want me to scold you some more?"

Her answer is immediate.

She shakes her head hard enough to jostle both of us.

"No."

"That's what I thought."

She narrows her eyes slightly, still suspicious, but then she tucks herself closer against me and accepts the compromise for what it is: Dada trying to bend the rules without technically breaking them and getting caught doing it by his five-year-old.

Which is humiliating.

And, annoyingly, not the first time.

I can practically hear Rain already.

This is what I mean, Phi.

Yeah.

I know.

But I also know this—my daughter is in my arms, warm and sorry and trying, and the idea of making her cry just to prove a point feels like self-harm at this stage.

So I settle for brushing my mouth over her hair and tightening my hold on her as we walk back toward the house.

"No more fake sick, okay?" I say quietly, bringing it back to the thing that actually matters.

"No more fake sick," she repeats.

"And no more making Papa worry."

She nods against my shoulder. "Okay."

I believe her.

Mostly.

As we walk, she lifts her head just enough to murmur, "Can I ride again tomorrow?"

I huff a laugh before I can stop it.

Of course.

Of course this is where she's landed.

I glance down at her, at the hopeful little look already creeping back into her face, guilt and joy and audacity living side by side exactly the way they do in both her parents.

"If you behave," I say.

Her grin breaks wide again.

"I will!"

I shake my head, hopeless and entirely in love with her.

Yeah.

Rain definitely doesn't need to know how little Armageddon there actually was.

By the time we step into the house, the smell of dinner wraps around us, and I set her down, Rain glances up immediately.

His eyes go to Kaia first, then to me, reading both our faces with that frightening accuracy of his.

Well.

Here we go.

Kaia looks at me once, quick and secret, like she's checking the story.

I stare straight back at her.

Don't get clever.

She bites her lip, then turns to Rain and says, with just enough solemnity to sound convincing, "Dada scolded me."

I fold my arms loosely and do my best to look like a man who absolutely did.

Rain's gaze slides to me.

I give him nothing but a calm face and the faintest lift of a brow, like obviously.

Inside, though?

Inside, I am one wrong question away from being exposed by my child

His eyes slide from mine to Kaia, then back to me.

He snorts. "Yeah, right."

That's it.

Two words, not even remotely convinced.

Then he waves a hand toward the stairs like he's dismissing both of us at once. "Just go wash the sweat off her so we can have dinner."

Kaia gasps beside me, scandalized in that dramatic way she gets from both of us. "Papa! I'm not sweaty."

Rain lifts a brow.  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, because now she really does smell like me after riding. She looks up at me immediately, searching my face for allegiance.

I give her none.

"Come on, little storm," I say, as I scoop her up again. "Papa has spoken."

She groans like we're marching to her execution, but she wraps around me easily enough, all warm limbs and fading adrenaline. As I turn for the stairs, I catch Rain watching us from the counter, that look in his eyes somewhere between fond and deeply unimpressed.

"You didn't scold her," he says, not even a question.

I glance back over my shoulder. "I absolutely did."

Rain's mouth twitches. "Phi."

"She cried," I add with a straight face.

Kaia jerks in my arms and looks at me, betrayed. I squeeze her lightly before she can sell me out.

Rain laughs then, shaking his head as he goes back to whatever he's doing at the stove. "Get out of my kitchen."

I take that as victory.

...

Upstairs, Kaia has fully recovered from the tragedy of being told to wash before dinner. By the time we get to her bathroom she's talking again, telling me dinner smells good, telling me she thinks Papa knows everything, telling me very seriously that next time if she wants to come home early she will "just miss you normally."

"Well," I mutter, setting her on the counter so I can run the cloth under warm water, "that's a sentence I'm going to ignore."

She giggles.

I wipe her face first, then her hands, then the back of her neck where the helmet trapped sweat against her skin. She squirms but lets me do it, already less interested in resisting now that the ride is over and dinner is close.

When I push her curls back from her forehead, she studies me in the mirror for a second and then asks, "Papa really knows you didn't scold me?"

I meet her eyes in the glass.

"Yes," I say dryly. "Papa knows everything."

She considers that with the seriousness it deserves.

Then she pats my cheek with one damp little hand. "It's okay, Dada. You tried."

I stare at her.

Then I bark out a laugh so sudden it startles both of us.

"You're unbelievable," I tell her, lifting her back into my arms. "Five years old and already mocking me in my own house."

She laughs into my neck, all bright and shameless, and I carry her back downstairs toward the smell of dinner and the man who saw straight through me in one glance.

Rain looks up the second we step back into the kitchen. His gaze skims over Kaia—clean enough now, curls damp at the temples, still pink-cheeked from outside—then lands on me.

"Well?"

"She's acceptable," I say.

Rain hums, unimpressed, and slides Kaia's plate onto the table. "Sit."

Kaia wriggles down from my arms and hurries to her chair. I move in behind Rain instead, resting a hand briefly at his waist, leaning close enough for only him to hear.

"You could've backed me up," I murmur.

He doesn't even look at me. "Why would I ruin a perfectly good front-row seat to you being outsmarted by a five-year-old?"

I huff a quiet laugh against his hair.

Cruel man.

My man.

He glances back at me then, finally, mouth softening just enough to take the sting out of it. "Dinner," he says.

I press a quick kiss to his temple and go sit down.