Page 39 of Wings
She looked up, and I caught the flash of anticipation in her eyes. We'd done this the past two nights—our private ritual that was quickly becoming my favorite part of the day. A chance to check in, to connect, to make sure she was taking care of herself.
"Coming, Daddy." She gave Cleo's hand a squeeze. "We'll finish tomorrow?"
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She followed me upstairs to the nursery, that familiar shyness creeping back in. Privacy did that sometimes—made her more aware of our dynamic, more conscious of the vulnerability in it. I'd learned to go slower in these moments, let her settle into the safety of routine.
"On the bed, baby girl," I instructed gently, closing the door behind us. "You know the drill."
She climbed onto the butterfly comforter, sitting cross-legged in the middle. The fairy lights cast everything in that soft glow that made the room feel separate from the world. Just us in our bubble of safety and trust.
I sat facing her, close enough our knees touched. "How was your day?"
"Good." She twisted her fingers in her lap. "Helped Mandy with inventory. Lena showed me some of her tattoo designs. Had lunch with—"
She stopped abruptly, color draining from her face.
"Ki?" I kept my voice neutral, but inside, alarms were going off. "What's wrong?"
"I—nothing. Just remembered something."
But I knew her tells now. The way her shoulders hunched when she was trying to make herself smaller. How her breathing changed when she was calculating whether to lie or confess. I waited, giving her space to make the right choice.
"Talk to me, baby girl."
She met my eyes, and I saw the war there—old habits of hiding versus new patterns of honesty. Finally, her shoulders dropped in defeat.
"I forgot lunch," she whispered. "Lena and I got talking about her tattoo equipment, and then Thor needed help with something, and suddenly it was three PM and—I'm sorry."
My jaw tightened, but I kept my touch gentle as I took her hands. "Thank you for telling me the truth. That was very brave."
Hope flickered in her eyes. "So . . . it's okay?"
"No, baby girl. It's not okay." I squeezed her hands carefully. "What's rule number two?"
"Three meals a day," she recited, voice going smaller.
"And why do we have that rule?"
"Because I need to take care of myself."
"Because you matter," I corrected firmly. "Because your health matters. Because going six or seven hours without food hurts your body, and I won't let anything hurt you—including yourself."
Tears gathered in her eyes. "I didn't mean to. I just—"
"I know you didn't mean to." I pulled her into my lap, holding her close. "But that's exactly why we need the rule. Because when you get distracted or busy, taking care of yourself is the first thing you drop. And that's not acceptable anymore."
She pressed her face into my neck, and I felt her tears, hot and guilty. "Are you mad?"
"Not mad. Disappointed that you didn't take care of my baby girl." I rubbed her back in slow circles. "And now there have to be consequences."
She went very still against me. "What kind of consequences?"
"Corner time. Ten minutes to think about why eating matters and how we can make sure this doesn't happen again."
"Corner time?" She pulled back to look at me, eyes wide. "Like . . . standing in the corner?"
