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having grown up in a female centric family, park learned very quickly that women rule the world.
especially those under the age of ten, as proven by the fact that he is seated on a children’s chair, knees folded to his chest as he holds a small porcelain cup between his thumb and forefinger.
emma’s baby sister, the result of the marriage between her mother and stepfather, is the cause of his current situation. merely six, the girl is the spitting image of both his girl and their mother (a promising thing; he can appreciate a woman just a tad older than himself just as well as a younger one, and ms. Nolan is a beautiful woman), and a true dictator.
it’s his first time visiting their house, and the second he gave the flowers to the lady of the house, a tiny hand had wrapped around his finger and dragged him along towards a small table looking out over the spacious garden with the command sit.
park had learned very quickly to listen to his mother, his aunts, any nurse, and apparently also six year old girls that look so much like his angel that it makes something in his ache vaguely.
he expected the afternoon to be made up of stiff small talk, perhaps your average shovel talk delivered by either emma’s mother or stepfather, and excuses made after an hour or two. instead, he was held captive by this little thing who ruled with an iron fist.
“mr. brendon, you can’t spill the juice okay, mommy says it’s the fancy juice that i’m only allowed when we have guests.”
he peers down into the minuscule cup, only mere drops of a pinkish liquid in it. “i won’t,” he replies, trying to ignore the smile that he cannot see, but absolutely can feel, knowing full well emma is watching him.
“he won’t, soph. mr. brendon has a steady hand,” emma tells her.
“what’s that mean?”
god, that eyebrow crinkle is the exact same. before he can explain, emma does.
“you know how I work at the hospital, right? like we’ve talked about?”
sophia nods solemnly. “yeah, you’re a nurse. you help the sick people.”
emma nods as she walks over to them, crouching down and adjusting her sister’s shirt where it has ridden up. “mr. brendon is a doctor,” she tells the girl. “sometimes he does surgery, which is where he helps fix something when people are sleeping. it’s very important that he doesn’t mess up when he does that, though.”
“like how mommy says i’m not allowed to hold the scissors when we’re crafting unless i’m at the table? or when ms. kayla says we have to colour inside the lines?”
“yes,” he replies. “like that.” he drinks the few drops of juice before placing the empty cup on the table.
it’s awkward, stiff; he never knows how to hold himself around children, and this particular one is eyeing him up like she understands more than she should at age six.
“does that mean you’re good at braiding my hair?” she blurts, which is immediately met by a chorus of protests from the other adults in the room (soph, baby, leave mr. brendon alone. sophia no. sophia–)
“yeah,” he grunts, ignoring everyone else. “c’mere.”
the girl grins, rounding around the small table before plopping herself down on a pillow between his knees. this he knows. he learned to braid when his mother was ill, not sure how to help in other ways but the small ones.
her curls are similar to emma’s, perhaps a bit looser. the second he starts braiding, his shoulders relax, the tightness of his jaw reduces and he gets lost in it, the steady rhythm of his fingers familiar and easy to get lost in.
he’s unaware of the fact that emma has joined her mother near the kitchen counter, the pair of them staring at his hulking figure bent over this small figure, wrapped around her finger from the moment he stepped through the door. he also doesn’t hear the murmured compliment his angel receives.
“you did well, babygirl. he’s a keeper.”