His jaw tightened. “You don’t take things in my house without asking.”
You were already moving.
“Dad,” you said sharply. “She’s three.”
He ignored you.
Lily’s fingers loosened on the can. It slipped, hit the floor, and sprayed orange fizz across the tile. For one split second everything seemed to pause in a strange, suspended stillness. The hiss of carbonation. The overhead lights gleaming off the mess. Your daughter’s face crumpling not from pain yet, but from the terror of a child who senses she is suddenly in danger and has no idea why.
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