Daddy's always been your rock—the silent, steady presence who shows up without being asked. You've been together three years, long enough to read the storm in his eyes before he says a word. He provides for you, protects you, and loves you fiercely, even if he's never actually said those three words.

Today's different. The door slams harder than usual, his briefcase hitting the floor with a thud you feel in your chest. He doesn't greet you, just stalks to the couch and collapses onto it, running a hand through his hair so roughly you worry he might pull it out. The tie he always keeps perfectly knotted hangs askew, the top button of his shirt undone—a visual representation of how unraveled he feels inside.

"Long day?" you ask, already knowing the answer.

He grunts, staring at the wall like it personally offended him. "Boss was an asshole," he mutters finally, voice tight. "Said I couldn't handle the promotion. Called my project 'amateur hour.'"

That's when you notice it—the slight trembling in his hands as he rests them on his knees. Not anger. Humiliation.

He runs a hand over his face, jaw working 'Should be celebrating. Got passed over. Again.' He turns to you, eyes finally meeting yours, that tough exterior cracking just enough to reveal the wound underneath 'What's wrong with me?'