#orbiter

It’s why you shouldn’t be surprised by the situation you’ve just caught your son in, but you’re still completely thrown off - frozen in his doorway with a stunned expression on your face.

“Mom!” He yells at you, panic lacing his voice.

In your defense, you had knocked on the half open door before coming in to ask him if he could move his load of laundry in order to start yours.

And because he was supposed to be studying, you definitely didn’t expect to find him kissing his girlfriend on his bed.

He scrambles away from her, running his hands through his hair - a nervous tick he’s picked up from Steve, and he refuses to look at you.

“Uh, hi Mrs. Harrington,” his girlfriend says, looking down at her hands bashfully.

She’s curled in on herself a bit, clearly flustered at the interruption.

“Hi, sweetheart. Are you, um, staying for dinner?” You try to play it cool, not wanting to make her feel worse.

She picks at the fabric of her sleeve, “If you’ll still have me, I’d love to stay for dinner.”

You smile when she finally works up the courage to look at you, “Of course, you’re always welcome here.”

You can visibly see the tension release from her, but your boy isn’t off the hook so easily.

“Let’s keep the door fully open,” you quip, staring pointedly at him, “and move your laundry, please.”

“On it, Mom,” he replies, instantly grabbing the basket and booking it out of his room without so much as a backwards glance.

“Steve,” you whisper, grabbing at his elbow and gesturing for him to follow you into the downstairs bathroom.

He slips inside the tiny space with you, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“Hate to break it to you honey, but we’ve got hungry kids in the dining room ready to eat. We don’t exactly have time for you to feel me up in here,” he grins teasingly, hands coming down to rest on your hips.

You roll your eyes, pushing lovingly at his shoulder, “I didn’t drag you in here to get into your pants, Steve.”

You’d been waiting for a chance to talk to him without tiny ears eavesdropping, which was quite the feat when everyone was home.

He notices your expression shift, and he furrows his eyebrows, “What’s wrong, honey?”

You explain how you found your boy with his girlfriend, and Steve nods along - listening carefully to the concerns you have over it.

“It’s just, this is his first girlfriend, and I’m pretty sure he’s starting to feel more for her,” you say, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“And?” He prompts, knowing there’s more - hands sliding to cup your lower back.

“And, I'm worried about him being sexually active at his age,” you admit anxiously.

“We've talked about this with him before, honey. And don't forget he had to sit through a whole sex education class with me in seventh and eighth grade. Poor kid couldn’t look me in the eye the whole time,” Steve reminds you.

“Maybe I’m overthinking it. It’s stupid,” you bring a thumb to your lips, biting the skin there tensely.

Steve pulls your hand away, “Hey, none of that. Don’t want you hurting yourself, honey”

He presses a kiss to the tender skin you were prodding at, “And it’s not stupid. We can talk to him again if that’ll ease your worries, baby.”

“It would,” you reply, sighing in relief at the fact that he’s on the same page as you.

“Then we’ll talk to him after dinner,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, tugging you tighter to his chest, “I mean, we are experts after all.”

His teasing works, pulls a laugh out of you that encourages him to capture your lips with his - nose nudging yours, silently promising that the two of you will always be a team.

“Oh my god, are you seriously about to give me the talk? We’ve gone through this before, multiple times,” your boy emphasizes, wincing at the memories.

“Not necessarily the talk. We know you already know how it, uh, works,” Steve clears his throat.

“We just want you to be careful, hun,” you chime in, and you swear if your boy flushed anymore he’d be on fire.

“Mom, please stop,” he begs.

Steve cuts in, “You know we encourage waiting until you’re an adult. But we also know there’s going to be times where you have to make decisions on your own without our input."

Your son looks like he’s about ready to pass out from embarrassment, and you’d feel sorry for him if you hadn’t been the one that walked in on him, which is why you’re much more blunt about it than Steve’s being.

“What your father is trying to say is that, if you are having sex, which we don’t approve of you doing until you’re at least eighteen and as your parents, preferably even older than that. But if for some reason you are, you need to be using protection," you conclude.

His mouth flounders, jaw opening and closing - almost the spitting image of your husband when he does that.

“We aren’t,” he trials off, flailing his hands wildly like it’s supposed to fill in the blanks for you.

“You aren’t using protection?” Steve asks sternly.

“No! I mean, yes, if we were having sex. But I’m not,” he’s positively mortified now at the way you and Steve look at him in confusion.

“Not having sex, or not using protection?” Steve questions, wanting a clear answer.

“God, Dad, why do you have to keep saying it?” He groans, shutting his eyes.

“What? Sex? You know that’s in my job description, right?” Steve teases, trying to get him to lighten up.

He falls flat on his back on the bed and throws his hands over his face, “Believe me, I know.”

“Hun, I know this is an embarrassing conversation. Trust me, we don’t want to be having it either. But we love you, and it's because we love you that we want you to be making smart decisions,” you try to reassure him.

“I’m not having sex. I actually don’t think I’m ready yet,” he grows a little shy at the confession.

You feel yourself relax at the admission, “Oh. Well, okay then. It’s a good thing you recognize that, hun.”

“Mom, can you seriously not? I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he grits out, less self consciousness and more attitude seeping into his tone.

“Hey,” Steve says firmly, “Mom’s just doing her job, bud. It’s our job to help guide you with these things.”

He sits back up at that, “I’m sorry.”

You smile at him, patting his knee, “It’s okay, hun. I know it’s not a fun thing to talk about with your parents.”

“And, uhm, not that I’m trying to get out of this conversation, but do you hear that?” He points to the wall that borders your eldest girl's room.

The three of you fall quiet, ears straining to listen, and the tell tale sign of a window sliding open makes Steve jump out of his seat.

“If she thinks she’s sneaking out,” he grumbles, fleeing the room - stumbling down the stairs and through the front door.

Your boy looks at you in bewilderment, “How did he know that?”

“Maybe one day Dad will tell you about his ninja skills as he likes to call them, but today is not that day,” you grin.

“Not sure if I need to know why he refers to himself as a ninja,” he replies.

“Probably not,” you agree, “I’m gonna go check on them.”

You make your way downstairs and lean against the threshold of the door - peering out to look over at your girl’s bedroom window.

There’s a trellis that sits below it as it wraps over the first floor window. It allows her to swing her legs out and onto it - wobbling a little to right herself as she gently slides the window closed.

Steve’s planted himself under her window, hands on his hips - silently waiting for her to realize he’s there. You bite your lip in amusement at the sight, curious to see how he’s going to approach this.

When your girl turns around to start the climb down, she freezes at the sight of him.

They have a silent stare off before she gives him a sickly sweet smile - already trying to worm her way into the soft spot of his heart to let her off easy.

“Going somewhere?” Steve remarks.

“Nope, just uh, checking to make sure if there was an emergency I could get out,” she shrugs sheepishly, already knowing the excuse is weak.

“Uh uh, sure. Turn around,” Steve replies, standing his ground - making a circling motion with his hand.

“I’m sorry?” She tries, but it sounds more like a question than a statement.

“Appreciate that, sweetheart. But you’re still grounded,” he raises his eyebrows at her.

She sighs, “For how long?”

“How long would I have been sick to my stomach, worrying about where you were?” He inquires, folding his arms.

She closes her eyes in defeat, “Two hours. So, two weeks?”

“Sounds fair,” Steve nods.

She picks up on his cues that he has more that he wants to say to her, and she waits patiently for him to gather his thoughts.

“Please don’t ever try this again. Just ask Mom and I if you can go next time,” he pleads, frustration and fear lingering behind the words.

“You would’ve said no,” she grumbles.

“Maybe, maybe not. Guess you won’t know because you’re grounded and not going tonight,” he sasses her back.

“I really am sorry, Dad,” she says, eyes that look just like his begging him to forgive her.

“I love you. If anything had happened to you,” he trails off, not wanting to finish the statement.

She looks guilty at that, because she knows she put you and Steve through misery during her rebellious phase, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“That's all I can think of when you leave this home, that you return safely to Mom and I. And we can’t keep you safe if we don’t know where you are,” Steve clarifies, wanting her to understand the significance of why he’s upset.

She nods solemnly, “Okay, I understand.”

“Don’t think you’ll fully understand until you have kids of your own, sweetheart, but I appreciate you trying to,” Steve gives her a warm smile, communicating that she’s forgiven for scaring him.

“And I’m removing that damn trellis, by the way,” he calls out while she hauls herself back up into her room.

She narrows her eyes at him, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

You have to put a hand over your mouth to stop a giggle from slipping out at her quip - she always makes it glaringly obvious that she got her attitude from him.

“What the hell has gotten into our kids?” Steve asks you later that evening as the two of you relax on the couch, hand covering his face in disbelief.

Your legs were thrown over one of his parted thighs, and you were cuddled up under his arm - hand lazily tracing circles on the soft cotton of his sleep shirt.

Your younger babes were sleeping, and your oldest two probably weren’t, but at least they were safely tucked into their rooms. Steve was still jittery about your eldest girl, worried she was going to try to sneak out again - eyes flitting continuously to the front window.

“They’re teenagers, babe,” you remind him.

“Exactly, though. They’re teenagers, not adults. Why are they trying to do adult things?” He throws his hands up, raking them through his hair, before letting them fall back to rest on your legs.

“Steve, do you remember what you were like in high school?” You ask playfully, running your free hand through his soft locks that curl around his ear.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he sighs heavily.

“Then why are you surprised that your children are literally just like you?” You smile, bringing your hand down over his thigh that’s not tucked under you.

He laughs under his breath, “Yeah, guess that’s biting me in the ass.”

“They’re not purposefully trying to stress you out, baby. They’re just growing up,” you trace your hand up and down his thigh, trying to soothe the built up tension in him.

He’s quiet for a moment, before he sucks in a sharp breath, eyes starting to rim red from holding back tears.

“Where did our babies go?” He asks, tone laced with distraught.

You press a kiss to his shoulder, “They’re still our babies, honey, just older.”

“You know, I look at them and think about how there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them. I’d do anything to protect them from making the wrong choices,” he reflects, eyes flicking back up the stairs to where his children rest.

“That’s because you were meant to be a dad, Steve,” you press a kiss to his jaw, hand curling around his bicep as you snuggle closer.

“Meanwhile, my parents didn’t give a shit about what I was doing with how often they were gone,” he scoffs, fingers running up the calf of your leg absentmindedly.

You frown, not liking where his thoughts seem to be heading as he stares straight ahead - face twisting in unease.

“What’s wrong with me?” He asks thickly.

“What?” You ask incredulously, not quite sure if you can believe the words that just came out of his mouth.

Steve’s parents had left Hawkins a long time ago, though they kept in touch here and there. You knew they loved their grandchildren to some extent through the gifts and money they sent. But you also knew they thought your family was much too big, too loud, and too messy - not living up to their own standards.

“How can I feel this all consuming, unconditional love for my children, but my parents clearly never felt the same thing for me,” he remarks, lost in the ugly thoughts his mind is throwing at him.

You feel like the wind is knocked out of you from the harsh words leaving his lips, “Steve, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“There’s gotta be. Must’ve been some reason they couldn’t love me,” he replies dejectedly, still zoning out.

“Hey, that’s my husband you’re talking about,” you chide softly, reaching out to grasp tenderly at his jaw - trying to get him to look at you.

“I’m being serious,” he says, voice starting to wobble.

“So am I,” you shift, settling yourself fully in his lap, cupping his face tenderly.

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and you can tell he’s trying not to cry.

“Look at me,” you whisper, stroking at his cheekbones - ducking your head to meet his eyes.

“There is not a single part of you that’s unloveable, Steve Harrington,” you say it firmly, with a tone of finality - leaving no room for argument.

“But-,” he starts, and you cut him off - refusing to allow him to continue to think about himself in such a negative way.

“No. No buts. You were not hard to love then, and you are not hard to love now. You wanna know how I know?” You smile, starting to think of the mile long list of ways that makes loving him as easy as breathing.

He clenches his teeth together as the first drops of tears spill, “How?”

You lean your forehead against his, “When something goes wrong, do you know who every single person in this family turns to?”

He lets the words settle over him, trying to rub at his eyes. You stop him, replacing his hands with yours - fondly wiping the tears that trail his cheeks.

“You. Because we all know that you’re going to do whatever you can to make it better,” you tell him, and he sinks into your touch - head coming to a rest against your collarbones.

You can feel his intake of breaths becoming ragged, can feel the shake of his shoulders against you.

“And what about when you go watch their softball or baseball games? They run straight to you afterwards - no matter the outcome, because they know you’re going to be proud of them either way,” you add on.

Steve makes a pitiful sniffling sound, and it just about breaks your heart clean in half at having to hear those noises coming from him.

“Guess how many times they come home from school and ask me when you’ll be back from work because they’re desperate to tell you something about their day,” you wrap an arm around his back to hold him closer - free hand slipping into his hair to caress the back of his head.

He can’t answer with the way his throat has become tight, raw emotion bleeding from every part of him - breaking open at the unresolved pain that his parents caused.

“I honestly think you’re the most loved person in this house, baby,” you confide - nails running down the length of his back, trying your best to provide the dependable comfort he always shows you.

He makes a sound of protest, but you refute it, “You are, Steve. I’m so sorry your parents didn’t show you love the way they should have, baby. But that’s on them. Not you.”

You think about your next words carefully, trying to formulate what to say to ease his mind - aching at seeing him in distress.

“You know who does love you? Those teenagers - trying to act like adults because they know you’re gonna love them despite the choices they make. And don’t even get me started on the rest of them. God, they adore you, Steve,” your voice cracks, and your own eyes get glassy at the overwhelming gratitude that kicks up in your chest for him.

He breaks from your hold, leaning back against the couch to gaze at you adoringly.

You stare back, hand slipping to rest against the place where that radiant heart of his lies - feeling the steady rhythm it makes, “I fall in love with you more every day because I get to watch you be the best dad in the world.”

“Thought you loved me for my looks,” he mumbles jokingly.

“Oh well, that’s a given. You’re so hot, baby,” laughter bubbles up inside of you at his ability to lift the atmosphere.

He bites his lip, before gesturing to himself, “Even though I’m getting older?”

You smirk, “That just makes you more attractive, honey.”

His hands cradle your waist, thumbs slipping under your top - sweeping over the warm skin there as a serious expression takes over his features.

“Thank you for not letting me get lost in my head,” he says quietly.

“Would never let you, I love you,” you emphasize, reminding him once again because he deserves to be told so - deserves to know he’s worthy of every ounce of love that you could possibly give to him.

“Love you, gorgeous,” his lips curl up delicately, “c’mere.”

He tugs you to lay down against him, and the two of you listen to the sounds of your home - the hum of the refrigerator littered with drawings from your babes, muffled noise from the television that casts a soft glow across the living room, the creek of the stairs as little feet pad down them.

“Daddy?” The voice of your ten year old girl floats across the room.

“Yeah, babe?” Steve replies, turning his head to look at her.

“I can’t sleep,” she yawns tiredly, “can you read me a story?”

“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll be right up,” he answers, watches as she clambers back up to her room to wait for him.

“Told you,” you smile affectionately.

You force yourself to move off of him, so he can go follow his girl - sinking into the cushions of the couch.

“You wanna come with me?” He asks.

You shake your head, “She wants you. Go take care of your baby. I’ll be waiting here for you.”

He leans over to kiss you slowly - plush lips working against yours measuredly, trying to communicate his love for you.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers when he pulls away, pecking your lips once more.

You nestle deeper into the couch, watching him as he moves up the stairs, eyes trailing the muscles moving in his back - wishing that he could see himself the way you did.

He may not have been shown love the way he deserved as a child, but he certainly worked his ass off to make sure each and every one of his children never felt that way; and in return, he had a home full of these perfect little humans whose whole world revolved around him - orbiting their dad because they knew his heart belonged to them completely.

Divider credits to @pixopix

Harrington Household Taglist: @daveythorntonslocker @mutual-future-repeat @cciessuzi @enchantedsharddetective @aria1108 @ann-aatn @willyoucry13 @soapyysofi @scoopstroop0704 @offbrandhandymanny @sweatydjoshoes @sckmyk1ss @storietilman @shadogirl @foreverdjofan @keerymylove @finniewolfsoft @st4rg1rl88 @straystar-8

LEWIS WAS HALF DISTRACTED AS HE STEPPED THROUGH THE ELEVATOR DOORS, PHONE IN ONE HAND, READING A TEXT FROM HIS TRAINER, AND A BAG OF GROCERIES IN THE OTHER. 

He was part way through unlocking his door before he looked down and froze mid movement. 

A little girl stood in the hallway, right beside his door, a tiny backpack hanging off one shoulder, a sheet of paper clutched in both hands like a school assignment. She couldn’t have been older than eight, her tight curly hair mussed from travel, the knees of her jeans scuffed, and she was staring up at him with an expression far too calm for a child standing alone outside a stranger’s apartment in Monaco. 

He blinked at her, taking her in and she blinked back up at him. 

Warm brown skin, dark steady eyes, the shape of her mouth--his mouth. 

He made a low sound of distress. 

The little girl looked at him then to his door, then back at him like she was trying to compare his face to a mental picture. Then she unfolded the paper in her hands, looked down at it then back up at him. 

“Are you Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton?”

His pulse kicked so hard it made him dizzy. 

“Y-yes.” 

She nodded once, satisfied, and held out the paper. 

“I need you to sign this, please.”

Lewis took the paper automatically, hands trembling. The heading hit him first. 

VOLUNTARY TERMINATION OF PARENTAL RIGHTS.

His stomach dropped so violently he had to grab the doorframe for balance. Then he looked back at her. Really looked at her. 

The arch of her brows, the little concentrated crease between them. The exact shape of her nose, the shape of her eyes. It was like looking at a childhood photo of himself, if someone had shifted it slightly, made it smaller, softer, a little girl instead of a little boy. 

“Oh my God,” he whispered, horrified. 

The girl shifted her weight, “You’re supposed to sign the bottom,” she explained, pointing at the paper. 

Lewis stared at her, stared at the paper, then her again. 

His voice came out thin as he dropped the bag of groceries, “Wait here.” 

He didn’t wait for a response, didn’t look down at the loaf of sourdough that had almost toppled out of the bag, he just turned and ran. 

~~~~

When Nico Rosberg told Lewis Hamilton that they could work on their relationship after ten years of self induced angst and mutual sabotage, he did not expect it to mean that the other man had full reign over Nico’s nights and evenings, but clearly that had become the case. 

To say that he was surprised that Lewis had appeared at his door at 6:30pm on a Wednesday would be a lie. He was more surprised by the force and desperation Lewis banged on his door with, the wood all but rattling off its hinges. Nico almost thought it was the police. When he opened the door to find a half hysteric Lewis, he scowled. 

“Mate, be serious, why are you knocking on my door like that--.”

Lewis cut him off by grabbing his wrist.

“Come upstairs.”

Nico frowned, “What?”

“Now.”

There was something in his face that made Nico’s annoyance melt away into concern. He let himself be dragged, barefoot, up the stairs and into Lewis’ apartment. 

“What is going on?”

Lewis pointed wordlessly towards the kitchen. 

Nico followed his finger and stopped dead.

Sitting on Lewis' counter, eating a loaf of sourdough bread straight from the bag was a little girl, she was tiny, narrow in a way she shouldn’t be--but her eyes were wide and brown and doe like, he recognized them immediately. He had spent decades of his life looking into those eyes, searching for those eyes in the crowd. Lewis’ eyes. Lewis’ mouth, Lewis’ face copy pasted onto a little girl. 

She looked up at them and waved, “Hi.” 

Nico suddenly overwhelmed with disbelief and shock did the only he could, he laughed, out right. All but cackled. Doubling over and bracing himself against the door. 

“Its not funny,” Lewis hissed. 

Nico continued to cackle. 

“Nico!”

“Mate, that’s your face!” 

Lewis punched him in the shoulder, “It’s not funny!”

Nico forced himself to hold back his cackles behind a trembling smile. “You’re right--I’m sorry--its fucking hillarious.” 

“Nico! I’m about to have a panic attack, stop laughing,” Lewis all but begged looking more light headed by the second. That sobered him quickly, he stepped towards Lewis, pressing a hand to the other man’s ribs in a soothing gesture. 

“Its okay, it’s all right.”

The girl watched placidly, taking another bite of sourdough. 

Nico turned his attention back to her, stepping closer but keeping enough distance not to crowd her. “Hello, darling.”

She looked at him calmly, “Hi,” she said around a mouthful of bread. 

“What’s your name?”

She took her time to answer, chewing and swallowing. “Naomi. Naomi Brooks.”

Brooks. He knew that name. 

Lewis made a low sound from behind him, watching with a hand over his mouth. Nico kept his focus on Naomi. “That’s a beautiful name,” he pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m Nico,” he pointed to Lewis. “That’s Lewis.”

“I know who he is.”

“Oh? And who is he to you?"

"He's my biological father," she said bluntly before she reached into her backpack and pulled out a paper. Flattening it out against the counter. “I need him to sign that," she said matter of factly.

Lewis made another wounded sound. 

Nico pointed at the paper, “Can I look at it?”

She slid it across the counter and Nico took it peering at the contents, he made a sound. 

VOLUNTARY TERMINATION OF PARENTAL RIGHTS.

He looked back at her, “Why do you need him to sign it?”

“Because then they’ll probably let someone adopt me faster.”

~~~~~~

The words hit Lewis like a slap. He stepped forward. 

“What?”

Naomi shrugged like she was explaining homework and not legal paperwork. “If that doesn’t work, then when I’m fourteen I can probably apply for emancipation. But that takes longer, so I figured this was easier.” 

The room went completely still, Nico looked at Lewis and for the first tim there actually seemed to be a hint of fear in his friend’s face. Because that was not a normal thing for a child to say. Lewis stumbled to the counter and collapsed on a stool so hard he almost missed the seat, 

Naomi took another bite of bread. 

“Naomi,” he started carefully, voice shaking, “how did you get here?”

“From California.” 

Nico made a sound of dread.

“No,” Lewis said, pressing a hand to his forehead. “How did you get on a plane?”

She thought about it as slowly chewed on bread, then she shrugged. “Pure luck, honestly. And bluffing.” 

Lewis made a choking noise, Nico braced himself against the sofa looking suddenly just as sick as Lewis felt. 

Naomi flicked her brown eyes between them, expression eerily unimpressed as she took another bite of bread. 

“They don’t really watch kids that much if you act like you know where you’re going.” 

Lewis buried his face in both hands. 

“Oh my god,” Nico whispered in German. Too many years beside him Lewis could recognize certain phrases as easily as he breathed. A flicker of amusement flashed across the blonde’s face. “She’s literally you.”

Lewis looked up sharply, shooting a look at Nico. “Shut up.” 

But he was right. She really was. Not just in appearance but the careful disengaged tone. The quiet confidence. The terrifying commitment to plan that should have been impossible. 

Lewis swallowed hard. 

“Your mother,’ he said slowly, “Is she--is she Nancy. Nancy Brooks.” 

“Yes,’ she looked shocked that he knew. 

The confirmation hit his chest like a gun shot. A woman he dated briefly years ago in Los Angeles. A relationship so short, chaotic and toxic he had barely processed the break up. She never told him she was pregnant. Never called. Never reached out. Knowing her this was probably another way to get back at him for getting up and leaving when he had enough. 

Naomi took another bite of sourdough. “She left one day. A couple years ago.”

Lewis looked up, she wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at the loaf. 

Naomi’s tone remained flat, almost detached. “She said she was going to the store. She didn’t come back.”

Nico went completely still behind him, Lewis could feel it. 

Lewis on the other hand could barely breathe, “How long were you alone?” 

Naomi shrugged. “It was like…two weeks? Maybe more. I don’t really remember. The neighbour called somebody because I stopped going outside.” 

Lewis had to shut his eyes, feeling suddenly dizzy.

“Naomi,” Nico’s voice was low, “How long is a couple years ago?"

“Four.” 

“How old are you?”

“I’ll be eight next month.”

December.

She wasn’t even eight.

Four. She was four when her mother left.

Lewis’ hands shook and he made another wounded sound. 

Noami looked down at his hands, then looked at him. 

For the first time, Lewis saw her clearly. 

She was exhausted. There were bags under her eyes and stiffness in the way she sat, like she was forcing herself upright. The hyper-alert stillness of a child who had learned not to expect help. 

She wasn’t even eight. 

Not even eight and talking about legal emancipation and foster care systems like she had already accepted no adult was coming to save her. 

Something in Lewis broke so suddenly he had looked away so she wouldn’t see the tears beginning to build in his eyes. He took a deep breath and forced himself steady. 

He turned back to her, standing and moving around the counter slowly as if approaching a frightened animal. 

“Naomi.”

She tensed. 

His voice was gentle. “You must be exhausted.”

Her eyes narrowed immediately, suspicious.  

“I’m not dumb.”

“I know,” his voice cracked, “I can tell. You seem like a very smart girl."

That seemed to catch off guard. 

He moved closer, not crowding, just trying to bridge that distance. 

“No one’s taking you anywhere tonight. I know you came here for a reason, but you need sleep.”

She still watched him wearily. 

He pointed down the hall on the ground floor, “There’s a guest room just down that hall. It’s yours for as long as you need it,” he chose his words carefully. “You can lock the door if you want. Nico and I will stay right here.” 

She stared at him for a long moment. Then, like her little body had betrayed her, she yawned so hard her eyes watered. She looked absolutely furious about it, Lewis tried not to smile at her but failed and she looked just as furious about that too. 

Beside him Nico put the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing, she shot him a sharp look also, he sobered immediately.

Naomi pointed a finger at Lewis, “If you call the police I’ll know.”

Lewis nodded solemnly,” Understood.”

She watched him suspiciously for a moment more before she slid off the island, picked up her backpack, and marched toward the guest room like she owned the penthouse. 

The door clicked shut.

Silence fell. 

Lewis stood frozen in the kitchen for a long moment before he grabbed his phone and called his lawyer. 

Camille answered on the second ring. “Lewis?”

“I need you to run a full legal verification on a child.”

There was a long pause,”What?”

Lewis started pacing, hand trembling. “Her name is Naomi Brooks, she’s seven. She’s in my apartment and she says she’s my daughter.” 

Camille was silent for a long moment, “Lewis," she began gently like she could hear the panic underlying his tone. “Are you sure this isn’t some prank?”

Lewis looked down the hall, then glanced at Nico who was staring at the half eaten loaf of sourdough bread like it had personally punched him in the gut. 

Lewis’ voice went thin with panic, “I am literally looking at myself in miniature. She ate my sourdough loaf and threatened me with legal paperwork.” 

The was a longer pause, then she sighed. “Text me the name. I’ll start immediately. Make sure she goes absolutely nowhere.”

The line disconnected.

Lewis lowered the phone, his hands were shaking so hard he almost dropped it. He turned to Nico who no longer looked amused, but looked just as stunned. 

“What am I going to do?”

Nico looked down the hall towards the closed guest room door, then back at him. His expression softened into something almost unbearably tender. He stepped closer, resting both hands on Lewis’ shoulders in a familiar calming, grounding gesture. 

“You’re going to breathe,” Nico said quietly. 

Lewis laughed once, hysterical and broken. 

Nico squeezed his shoulders. 

‘And then,” he continued, glancing at the closed bedroom door where the little girl had finally let herself go rest, “you’re going to figure out how to become a father. Because I don’t think she crossed an ocean to let you say no.” 

~~~~

The next morning, his lawyer,  Camillie Laurent, knocked on his door at exactly 8:13 am. 

Lewis had not slept. 

He opened the door looking as wrecked as he felt--the same clothes as yesterday, hair a mess, coffee untouched in his hand. She swept past him without greeting, carrying a leather briefcase so overstuffed with files it looked one wrong move away from bursting. 

She was brisk, composed, impossible to rattle…until she spotted Naomi. 

Naomi was perched on the kitchen island once more, like chairs didn’t exist, dressed in one of Lewis’ oversized hoodies, the sleeves rolled up several times to reveal her little hands, eating dry frosted flakes straight from the box and swinging her feet back and forth.

Camille stopped dead. 

Her face visibly blanched. “Oh.” 

Then, very slowly, she looked at Lewis. “Oh.” 

Lewis gave her a hollow look, “Exactly.”

Camille stared at Naomi a second longer. The child glanced back, expression entirely unimpressed. 

Camille muttered, almost to herself, “No wonder you were certain.” 

Nico, who was leaning against the espresso machine in Lewis' kitchen, snorted into his coffee, Lewis scowled at him, he looked away innocently. 

Camille recovered quickly, setting the briefcase down and pulling out file after file, spreading papers across the marble counter top like she was preparing for trial. 

“Her name is Naomi Imani Brooks,” she said, all business now. “Birth certificate exists. Mother listed matches the woman you named. The conception timeline aligns. There’s no immediate red flag suggesting forged documentation.”

Lewis stared at the papers.

It had been one thing to see Naomi standing in his doorway.

Another thing entirely to see legal proof of her existence.

Eight years of existence.

Without him.

Camille continued, voice grim. “Airline manifests confirm an unaccompanied minor matching her description boarded from Los Angeles and arrived in Nice yesterday. She should never have made it through multiple checkpoints alone, but somehow she did.”

Nico rubbed a hand down his face. “That’s insane.”

“It gets worse,” Camille said quietly.

She tapped another document.

“She has not been reported missing.”

The apartment went silent.

Lewis felt something cold move through him.

Camille’s expression tightened. “That means one of two things. Either no one has had eyes on her long enough to notice she’s gone—.”

“Or,” Nico said, already sounding sick.

Camille nodded once.

“Someone did notice and chose not to report it.”

Neither option felt survivable.

At the counter, Naomi was carefully sorting Frosted Flakes into groups of different sizes like the conversation had nothing to do with her. 

Camille cleared her throat and shifted to the next stack.

“Legally, there are several immediate paths. Emergency temporary guardianship, petitioning for paternity confirmation while she remains in your care, contacting French and American child services jointly—.”

“The only legal path,” Naomi interrupted, not even looking up from her cereal, suddenly sounding decades older than she was, “is terminating his parental rights.”

All three adults froze.

Camille blinked.

Naomi set the cereal box down and slid off the counter. She walked over to the papers, small hands braced on the marble as she peered at them.

“That’s why I came.”

Camille, to her credit, recovered faster than most.

She crouched slightly, voice measured. “Naomi, that may not actually be the safest option for you.”

Naomi frowned at her like she’d just said something profoundly stupid.

“It is if I want to be adopted.”

Camille opened her mouth.

Naomi pointed at the paperwork.

“If he signs away rights and doesn’t contest placement, they can’t force me back to him if I get another placement first.”

Lewis stared.

Nico made a sound like he had forgotten how breathing worked.

Camille tried again. “That’s... not how it would necessarily work.”

Naomi crossed her arms stubbornly, “That’s what the library computer said.”

The room fell into a terrible, stunned silence.

Lewis looked at Nico.

Nico looked at Lewis.

Both of them were having the exact same thought.

She researched this.

A seven-year-old had sat at a public library computer and researched how to sever legal ties to a father she had never met because she thought it would improve her odds in foster care.

Camille, who had negotiated multimillion-dollar contracts and once reduced a tabloid editor to tears, looked visibly outmatched by a third grader.

Naomi pointed to one of the forms.

“That one says voluntary.”

Camille inhaled sharply. “You can read legal documents?”

Naomi gave her another look, that bordered on cussing her out, “I’m not dumb.”

Nico pressed his fist against his mouth so hard he nearly choked trying not to laugh at the sheer audacity, Camille shot him a glare so fierce he almost swallowed his tongue. 

Lewis was somewhere between wanting to cry and wanting to pick Naomi up and never put her down again.

Camille straightened, clearly preparing for round two.

And then—a click of claws on hardwood.

Roscoe trotted into the kitchen.

The bulldog had apparently just woken from his nap, nails tapping across the floor, tail wagging lazily.

Naomi stopped mid-sentence. Every bit of sharpness vanished from her face, her eyes widening.

She gasped like she had seen actual magic, “Dog.”

Roscoe looked up at her, snorted once, and waddled directly to her side as though they had always belonged together. Naomi dropped to her knees so fast she nearly tipped over a stool. 

“Oh my God,” she whispered, reverent.

Roscoe shoved his big wrinkled head directly into her lap.

And just like that—she was gone.

No legal strategy. No defensive posture. No tiny battle-hardened negotiator. Just a little girl giggling breathlessly as a dog licked her face. She buried both hands in Roscoe’s fur, laughing for what sounded like the first time since she had arrived.

The sound hit Lewis like a punch.

It was so young.

So unmistakably seven.

Nico’s expression changed too, something in him softening all at once.

Naomi looked over her shoulder, grinning so hard it no doubt hurt.

“He likes me!”

Lewis’s throat closed.

Roscoe, traitor that he was, rolled onto his back for belly rubs.

Naomi squealed and forgot every single adult in the room existed as she gave the dog exactly what he wanted. 

Camille slowly turned to Lewis, lowering her voice.

The shift was immediate—serious again, but gentler now.

“She’s been neglected. That much is obvious. If California child services hasn’t flagged her yet, we need to move before they do and before anyone can classify this as international custodial interference.”

Lewis tore his gaze away from Naomi and Roscoe.

His voice came out rough. “What do I do?”

Camille glanced toward the child on the floor, now whispering secrets directly into Roscoe’s ear.

Then she looked back at him.

“For now? Nothing that makes her think you’re sending her away.”

Lewis swallowed.

Nico stepped closer beside him, shoulder brushing his in a way that grounded him just enough to stay upright.

Camille tapped the papers.

“We file for emergency paternity confirmation today. Quietly. I’ll coordinate with contacts in both countries. But Lewis,” she paused. Her usually unshakable face was unexpectedly gentle.“If the test confirms what all of us can plainly see, then the moment authorities become aware she’s here, they may try to remove her temporarily while jurisdiction is sorted.”

Lewis went still.

Across the room, Naomi laughed again as Roscoe sneezed in her face.

His chest hurt.

Camille lowered her voice further.

“So if you want any chance of keeping her with you, you need to start acting like her father now. Not when the paperwork says you can. Now.”

Lewis looked at the little girl on his kitchen floor, forehead pressed to his dog’s, smiling like she had forgotten for one perfect moment that the world had ever been cruel to her. And quietly, with something like terror and something like love threading together so tightly he couldn’t separate them, he realized he already had.

(Part 2)