Friday Evening: December 15th
The daddy-daughter dance.
Killian stood in front of the mirror adjusting his tie for the fourth time. Nervous. More nervous than he'd been facing down rival crime lords or prison riots or federal prosecutors.
Because this—this was different. This was normal. Domestic. The kind of thing regular fathers did without thinking twice.
And Killian had no idea how to do normal.
"You look fine," Isla said from the doorway. "Stop fidgeting."
"What if I do it wrong? What if I don't know the right—I don't know, protocols? Social norms? What if I embarrass Sera?"
"You won't. You just show up. Be present. Dance with her. That's it. That's all she wants."
"What if I can't dance? What if the music is too loud? What if—what if I have a panic attack in front of a room full of seven-year-olds and their fathers?"
