Sebastian POV
It's quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that used to be a blessing. Years ago, it meant peace. Control. Power.
Now it means she's not here.
And I hate it.
The living room still smells faintly like the cookies she baked this morning—something citrusy with cardamom, her latest obsession. Her ridiculous flower apron is still slung across the kitchen counter. One of her glitter pens lies abandoned on the table beside her daisy-shaped notepad with half-written homework and ten hearts doodled around the word Day.
My jaw clenches. Hard.
It's not that I don't like the boy.
Well. I don't like him. Not really.
But I understand him. That cold, quiet thing he has. The walls. The silence. The restraint that only comes from someone who's seen too much, too early.
He's like Kai. Like me.
It doesn't mean I want him anywhere near my daughter.
My daughter.
My baby.
Sixteen years ago I held her in my arms, barely breathing, the smallest thing in the world with the biggest, loudest presence. She gripped my finger and refused to let go.
Now she's gripping someone else's.
She FaceTimed him for an hour tonight. Sitting on the counter in my shirt, eating my cooking, humming while she picked petals off a flower and called him "grumpy bear."
I'd never admit it aloud.
But I almost told her to stop.
Almost told her I missed her before I ever got the chance to let her go.
She's in her room now. Or maybe asleep in Kai's. I didn't check. I couldn't.
I sit back on the couch, lights dimmed low. The house is still, the only sound the hum of the fridge and the whisper of wind through the balcony curtains.
Then—
I hear the softest patter of feet.
And a second later, a weight flings itself into my lap.
"Dadaaaaaa—" Her voice is syrupy, drowsy, familiar. "Why are you sulking alone?"
I don't react. Just raise an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be texting your boyfriend?"
She gasps. "You're mad."
"I'm not."
"You're sulking."
I don't respond.
She buries her face into my neck and whispers, "You're sulking because I love someone else now."
My throat tightens.
She pulls back and cups my cheeks with those flour-dusted hands of hers. "Sebastian Ashford. You think I've replaced you."
I keep my expression blank.
She pokes my chest. "Rude. First of all, you're irreplaceable. Second, he doesn't even braid my hair right. Third, you're my home. Okay? Always. Even when I'm eighty."
"I'll be dead when you're eighty."
"Then I'll still talk to your ghost."
"…You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
She throws her arms around me, tighter this time, like she's anchoring herself. Like she knows exactly what I need without me saying a word.
And she always does.
"I'll always come back home, dada," she whispers against my shoulder. "Always."
And for the first time that night, I let myself breathe.
I wrap my arms around her and press a kiss to her hair, like I did when she was two. When she didn't know the word love, but gave it better than anyone ever could.
She still does.
She still gives it to me.
And she always will.
Even if she loves someone else now.
I'm still her home.
And she'll always be mine.
---
She doesn't move.
Just curls tighter into my chest like I'm the safest place in the world. Her fingers tangle in the collar of my shirt. Her cheek presses against my heart like she's trying to sync with it.
And maybe she is.
She used to fall asleep like this all the time.
Arms flung wide like a starfish. Dandelion hair in her eyes. One sock missing. The scent of baby powder and strawberry toothpaste clinging to her like a second skin.
Now she smells like sugar and rosemary.
Now she's taller, louder, dreamier, bossier.
But right now?
She's still my baby.
"Are you gonna fall asleep here again?" I murmur.
She mumbles something into my chest that sounds suspiciously like, "You're warm. Like a bear."
"Sky."
"Shhh. I'm cuddling my other boyfriend."
I raise an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
She grins, eyes still closed. "You were my boyfriend first. Day's number two. Don't tell him."
"I won't. He'd cry."
She snorts, half-asleep.
And then she's quiet again.
I wait for her to shift, to get up and go to her bed, but she never does.
Instead, she exhales slow. Deep. One of those sleepy sighs she's been making since she was a toddler, like all her worries just floated out on a cloud.
And I know she's gone.
Out cold.
Knocked out on my chest with that same half-smile she always wears when she's wrapped in too many blankets.
I pull the throw blanket from behind me and drape it over both of us. Shift her head gently so she's resting against the crook of my shoulder. Her breathing evens out.
Her fingers twitch once.
Then go still.
And I just sit there, holding her.
In a silent, sleeping house, with the last piece of my world safe in my arms.
My baby girl.
My chaos.
My home.
The end .
Signing off.
Siddhii Singh.