I laugh.
“I think he knows.”
“Good.”
The call ends a minute later with no melodrama, no formal blessing, no ridiculous patriarchal speech.
Just a father pulling back one hand’s width from the ledge and a daughter proving she doesn’t need saving to deserve protection.
When I lower the phone, I’m smiling.
A little shaky.
A little stunned.
But smiling.
And when I turn, Tristan is standing at the far end of the hallway in his practice jersey, duffel over one shoulder, like he got out a minute late too and stopped the second he saw my face.
His eyes go to mine immediately.
Then to the phone still in my hand.
Then back to me.
He starts walking.
Not rushed.
Not casual.
Focused.
By the time he reaches me, his brows are drawn just enough to tell me he’s already run through five possible disasters in his head.
“What happened?”
I look at him.
At the concern.
At the steadiness.
At the man Emmanuel tried to interrogate from a distance and I defended without flinching.
And suddenly I feel absurdly proud.
“Nothing fatal.”
That almost gets a smile.
Almost.
“Stella.”
I step in close before he can say anything else and hook one finger into the front of his hoodie.
“My father went full warlord.”
