Dylan turned to look back at his daughter.
He had known earlier that she was pretending to sleep; he was only waiting for her to open her eyes.
Eira met her father's gaze. Her eyes brimmed with tears, yet she refused to let them fall.
That sight alone was heartbreaking.
Yet, Dylan stood there, appearing unaffected.
Only his clenched fingers —curled tightly into fists —betrayed him.
"You were never a bad child, Eira," he said. There was no deliberate comfort or indulgent affection in his tone —only a quiet certainty that could make anyone believe him.
His hands moved to pat over her head. "Don't let yourself think like that."
Usually, his words like that were enough to calm her. But tonight, Eira was not the same.
She had complaints —but she didn't want to complain.
She wanted to ask for her Mama —but she didn't have her Mama.
She wanted to cry —but she wouldn't let her tears make her look less pretty.
