I wasn't her father. I couldn't be.
Elias
It started with a form.
Just a stupid form.
GCC brochures had a website link.
He clicked through. Admissions. Requirements. Steps.
He thought it'd be simple. Enroll. Choose a major. Buy books.
Instead, the screen stared back at him like a challenge he wasn't ready for.
Social Security Number. Legal residency status. Guardian information.
He paused.
He didn't have answers for any of that.
Not for her.
Liana didn't have a high school diploma.
She didn't have a passport.
Hell, she didn't even have a real last name until he wrote "Chen" on that hospital intake form five years ago because she looked like Chinese.
He stared at the application form.
His fingers hovered over the mouse.
And for the first time in a long time— He didn't know what to do.
Later that day, at the station Hank still had his box of junk under one arm.
Retirement looked weird on him.
Same jacket, same bark, but his badge was gone.
Just a guy now.
"Wolfe," he said, not even looking up.
"Didn't think I'd see your face so soon."
"I need a favor."
That got Hank's attention.
He glanced over his glasses.
"You never need favors."
"It's not for me."
Hank leaned on the edge of a desk, eyeing him like a suspect.
"Go on."
"It's Liana. She's been thinking about school. College. But she doesn't have... anything. No ID. No record. No papers."
Hank didn't blink.
"Because you pulled her out of the system."
"Because the system would've destroyed her."
"That's not what I'm arguing."
Elias hesitated.
There was more.
Hank waited.
"I thought I could just... adopt her. File something. Make it clean."
He exhaled. Looked away.
"Turns out I can't."
Hank raised an eyebrow.
"Can't, or won't?"
Elias didn't answer.
His jaw worked.
His fingers flexed at his sides.
"She's not a kid anymore," he muttered.
"She's twenty."
Hank nodded slowly.
"And you don't want the word 'father' next to your name."
Elias's silence said everything.
Hank looked at him for a long time.
Then tossed his keys onto the table and said, "Fine. You want me to sign it?"
Elias looked up, sharp.
"You serious?"
Hank shrugged.
"I'm old. I'm boring. I've got a house, a pension, and enough goodwill on paper to make the system happy."
"It's not supposed to be your problem."
"It's not."
He leaned forward.
"But I saw you carry her out of that warehouse. Saw you sit in the waiting room three nights in a row while she detoxed in ICU."
He folded his arms.
"You're not her father, Wolfe. We both know that. But you sure as hell became something."
Elias didn't answer.
Didn't trust himself to speak.
Hank softened, just a little.
"Let me handle the paperwork. I'll be the guy on the line. Doesn't mean she has to live with me. Hell, I can't keep a damn ficus alive."
Elias exhaled.
Relief and guilt fought for space in his chest.
"Thanks."
Hank gave him a look.
"Just don't screw this up."
Elias nodded.
But he didn't feel better.
Not really.
Because he still couldn't answer the question that haunted him more than any legal form.
Why couldn't he do it himself?
Why did writing "father" feel like a lie his body wouldn't let him tell?
That night Liana sat at the kitchen table with her laptop open.
Elias watched her from the hallway.
She was quiet. Focused. Reading.
Then slowly, he saw it shift.
Her shoulders slumped.
Her eyes dimmed.
She closed the tab.
Didn't say anything.
But he could read the weight on her face like a report file.
He stepped in.
"Rough day?"
She shook her head.
Then nodded.
"It's harder than I thought," she admitted.
"They want... everything."
He didn't push.
"They want IDs. Records. Proof of things I've never had."
She gave a weak laugh.
"I don't have any of that."
He pulled out the chair across from her.
"You have more than you think."
"I have trauma," she said flatly. "That's it."
"You also have strength. And discipline. And years of self-study that most kids wouldn't last a week doing."
She didn't answer.
Just looked at her hands.
Then whispered:
"What if I'm too broken for this?"
The words hit him like a punch he hadn't braced for.
"No," he said immediately. "Liana, no."
She bit her lip.
"I just feel like... I missed the start line. Everyone else already ran ahead."
He leaned forward.
"You didn't miss anything. You just took a different road."
She looked at him.
And for a moment, he thought she might cry.
Her eyes were red.
But she didn't.
She just said, "What now?"
He reached into his bag and slid the folder across the table.
"Glendale Community College. Close by. No SAT. Open enrollment. All we need is a legal guardian to sign a few things."
She opened it slowly.
Then looked at him.
"You're...?"
"I asked someone I trust."
Because I couldn't bring myself to write 'father.'
Not when I didn't even know what we were anymore.
She didn't ask who.
She didn't need to.
She knew it wasn't him.
And part of her was glad.
Because part of her didn't want him to be her anything official.
Not father. Not guardian. Not something that kept her in the past.
But her fingers still trembled as they touched the papers.
Because this wasn't a maybe anymore.
This was happening.
And she wasn't sure whether she wanted to thank him—
Or run.