“Nope,” he says cheerfully, swinging his legs off the bed with only a slight wince.“But I’ll supervise. Very responsibly.”
I’m still laughing when I open the door.
Mia barrels into the room, curls exploding in every direction, her stuffed pig bouncing under her arm. She runs right past me and climbs onto the bed.
Ethan catches her, one-armed but steady.“Whoa there, tiny tornado.”
She giggles, then goes suddenly serious in that intense, four-year-old way. She touches his healing arm gently, tracing his bandage with careful fingers.
“Does it hurt, Efan?”
“Not so much anymore,” he says.
She nods thoughtfully, then looks up at him with those big blue eyes.
“Efan… can I ask you somethin’?”
“Anything, princess,” he says instantly.
She fidgets with her pig.“Is it… is it okay if I call you Daddy? Only if you want. And only sometimes. And only if Mommy says yes. And…”
Ethan’s breath catches.
My hand flies to my mouth.
He swallows hard, voice breaking just a little.“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispers.“Yeah. You can call me Daddy.”
Mia beams.“So I can tell my friends that you’re my daddy?”
Ethan smiles, eyes shiny.“You can tell the whole world that Ethan Hawthorne is the proudest daddy there is, because he is the daddy of the most beautiful, smart, and funny little princess there is.”
Mia grins and throws her arms around his neck.“Okay! Daddy, can we have pancakes now?”
He laughs, hugging her tight.“Absolutely.”
I blink back tears as I watch them, my daughter curled against the man who threw himself in front of a bullet for me without thinking. The man who’s spent the past month recovering with patience and humor, even though he misses his job and his crew more than he ever says out loud.
The man who stepped into Mia’s life so gently, so steadily, she never had time to doubt him.
Ethan looks at me over her shoulder, eyes soft and shiny, full, sure.“She calls me Daddy,” he whispers.
And in that moment, with morning light spilling across the sheets, with Mia giggling against his chest, with the world finally quiet…
I know.
We’re okay.
We’re safe.
We’re afamily.
???
The kitchen fills with the smell of batter and syrup and the sound of Mia’s nonstop chatter.
Ethan sits on a stool, our official“supervisor”, while Mia stands on a chair beside me, stirring the bowl like her life depends on it.
“No shells,” she says seriously.
