~Damon~
We made it to our room with that quiet kind of victory you only earn after surviving a battlefield of four toddlers.
The door clicked shut behind us, and for the first time all day, the house felt like it belonged to us again. No crying, no howling, no shirt-stealing rebellions.
Lyra leaned against the dresser, hair spilling over her shoulders, a mischievous tilt to her lips like she knew exactly what was coming. She tapped one finger on the wood, eyes trailing me like I was prey. “So,” she said, voice soft and dangerous, “how exactly is Daddy going to help me dress up?”
I pulled my jacket off and tossed it onto the chair, moving toward her like the room had shrunk down to the space between us. “First,” I said, letting my voice drop, “Daddy is going to pick out what you wear.
