The conference call was dragging, as they always did. Forty million on the table, a hostile merger dangling by threadbare NDAs, and not one of these bastards could answer a simple question without checking with their board. Thorne stood at the wide glass wall of the penthouse, staring out at the twilight swallowing the city. His voice was calm, clipped—ruthless in its precision.

“No,” he said into the mic, dark eyes unreadable. “Your offer is unacceptable. And if your projections aren’t updated in the next twenty-four hours, I’ll assume you’re attempting to stall until your liquidity issues are—”

WHAM.

The blow landed just below his spine, a tiny thud with surprising force for something three feet tall. Thorne’s words stopped dead. His jaw clenched. His free hand curled once, briefly, before relaxing. A pause on the call. “Mr. Thorne?” someone asked, cautiously.

Thorne turned slowly—like a glacier, or maybe a thunderstorm.

There she was.

Maple.

Three feet of fury and fluff, her little legs spread in a triumphant stance, chin tipped up, nostrils flared. Her onesie had trucks on it today—small green tractors and happy-faced bulldozers. The softest thing in the world, outside of the pair of baby horns growing stubbornly from her forehead.

The very same horns that had just slammed into his lower back.

Not covered. No padding. No tennis balls.

“I big now,” she said, voice soft but full of toddler bravado.

Thorne stared at her for a long moment. And then—slowly—he crouched. The headset slipped from his ear and landed on the table with a soft thud. The merger could wait. His daughter just took him out at the knees.

“Maple,” he said, voice low. Not angry—never with her. Just steady. “We do not headbutt Daddy during acquisitions.”

Maple blinked slowly, assessing the battlefield. One of the tennis balls from earlier—the ones she’d very pointedly yanked off her horns and hidden behind the ficus—rolled lazily across the marble floor like a fallen soldier. “Was... gentle bump,” she said finally, with the seriousness of a war tribunal. “Soft. Like goat.”

Thorne didn’t laugh, but something in his expression softened—his mouth twitching with restrained amusement. He reached out and brushed a thumb along the base of one tiny horn. It was warmer than it should be. A little red. Still growing. “Still itchy?” he asked, quieter now.

Maple nodded. Her whole body leaned into his hand. “Feels mad. Like... mad pizza.”

That earned a breath of a chuckle from him. “Hot and spinny?”

She nodded solemnly. “Yes. ‘Zactly.”

Thorne swept her into his arms. Effortless. Protective. Her little hooves tucked under her, arms around his neck, horns bumping gently against his jaw now—not out of rebellion, but because she didn’t know how else to be close. “I know it’s hard,” he murmured, rocking her once. “They’re new. And sharp. But love doesn’t get to hurt, Little Ram. Even on accident.”

Maple nuzzled into his collarbone. “Sorry bump,” she whispered. “But Daddy talkin’ so long.”

“I know,” he said. “Capitalism is exhausting.”

He stood, carrying her across the room toward the plush corner of the penthouse—her ‘cool-down zone.’ A mushroom-shaped stool, walls padded with pillows and plush animals, including one incredibly nervous-looking stuffed goat named Hank. “But rules are rules,” Thorne added gently. “And you headbutted a sovereign citizen. That means jail time.”

Maple gasped in betrayal. “Nooo! Not the hats.”

He opened the small woven basket beside the stool. Inside: two bright yellow tennis balls with small slits cut into them—her ‘training gear.’ Padding for her growing horns. And, if you asked her, the height of toddler injustice. “Three minutes,” Thorne said, crouching down. “You know the law.”

Maple pouted. Her whole body deflated into dramatics. “Daddy... cruel. Like goat jailer.”

“I’m worse,” he said mildly, slipping the balls onto each little horn with the utmost care. “I’m your father.”

She sulked. He adjusted her headband, checked her ears, then leaned in and kissed her on the forehead—just between the yellow domes. “Love you more than anything,” he said softly. “Even when you’re a tiny battering ram.”

Footsteps echoed from behind—softer, lighter. He didn’t have to turn. He felt the warmth settle in the room. Familiar. Grounding. A soft laugh—part surprise, part delight—cut through the air behind him.

“Don’t say it,” Thorne said over his shoulder.

“She got you again, didn’t she?”

He turned just enough to meet her smile. The one that always pulled at the place in his chest nothing else could reach.

Maple beamed from her mushroom stool. “Mommy! Daddy say I a casualty.”