Connor’s POV
That motherfucker. That smug, golden-retriever-faced human thinks he can send a d**k picture to my child—my only daughter, my Luna—and just get away with it?
I sat there at that stupid little table, fork still in my hand like some prop from a play I no longer wanted to be in, staring at the girl who used to fit in the crook of my arm while I read her bedtime stories. She was rambling now, words tumbling out in that defensive way she’s had since she was six and got caught with cookie crumbs all over her pajamas.
But this wasn’t cookies. This was my baby girl admitting—half-admitting, half-lying through her teeth—that some boy had crossed lines I specifically told him never to cross.
“He… he… he sent me a picture of his d**k. That’s all, Dad.”
The words hit me like a fist
