𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤 | 𝘙𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘯

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤 |
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐧

RAFE'S POV

Mateo came over, wearing mismatched pyjamas and clutching a plastic bag filled with off-brand sweets. His hair stuck out in uneven curls like he'd cut it himself in a mirror with dull scissors, and when I opened the door, he gave me the kind of sheepish smile that felt too sincere to fake. He looked like a kid who'd seen some hard days but hadn't let them harden him. The moment he stepped inside, he introduced himself, thanked us for letting him come over, then—completely unprompted—hugged Catalina and me in turn.

That hug did something to me. Not just because it caught me off guard, but because it was... real. Honest. Grateful. My grip on suspicion wavered.

Clara lit up as soon as she saw him. "Come on, the living room's way better than my bedroom," she chirped, tugging his arm. I watched the two of them dart off like excited puppies, arguing over which movie to watch loud enough for the entire house to hear.

Catalina nudged me with her elbow and tilted her head toward the sound of their laughter. "See? He seems like a polite little man."

I didn't answer right away. My eyes lingered in the direction they'd gone, where their giggles were now echoing down the hallway. Eventually, I nodded. "Yeah. Too polite."

She rolled her eyes at me, grinning like she knew exactly what kind of spiral I was working myself into. "You're impossible."

"I'm a father," I muttered.

"And a dramatic one."

Before I could insist on lurking somewhere within earshot like some overbearing bodyguard, Catalina grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the stairs. "Come upstairs. I want to show you something."

"The clothes?"

"Mm-hm."

I groaned under my breath but let her pull me. Adrian was out back working on a project involving wires and questionable circuit boards. Rosa had gone to her friend's for a sleepover. For once, the house felt strangely quiet upstairs. Still, I couldn't help glancing over my shoulder.

"Rafe," she said, pausing on the landing and facing me with a look. "They're fine."

"I know," I said. "I just—"

"You just don't want to accept that Clara isn't six anymore."

I said nothing. She was right, of course. But I hated it.

Once inside our bedroom, she shoved me lightly by the chest and I let myself fall backward onto the mattress. She disappeared into her wardrobe suite—two entire rooms of fabric, heels, and perfume that all smelled like her. I used to tease her about how ridiculous it was, how she had more space for her clothes than I had for my company files. But now? I loved every corner of it. Loved that she carved out pieces of this house for herself the way she'd carved a space in me, years ago.