ROSES 🌹 AND GUNS

THE FATHER AND THE DOCTOR

Seraphim's POV

The morning air was crisp, tinged with the scent of wet pavement from last night’s drizzle. Elsa skipped ahead, her little backpack bouncing against her shoulders, while I tried to keep pace without letting my thoughts wander too far.

“You’re walking too slow, Mama!” she called over her shoulder. “We’re going to be late!”

“I see that,” I replied, tightening my grip on my bag strap. “But I prefer not to run.”

She pouted briefly, then laughed, her energy irrepressible. I followed, keeping my gaze forward. That’s when I saw them.

The convoy.

Black cars lined up just outside the school gate. Elsa had already noticed them before I did, and she giggled. “They’re here again! Like last time!”

I frowned slightly. Not at the cars themselves — I was used to that. What made me tense was the way one man stepped out. Calm. Controlled. Assessing. A presence that demanded notice without raising his voice.

And then Elsa, oblivious, broke from my hand and ran ahead.

“No, Elsa!” I called, trying to catch her. “Wait!”

But she didn’t listen. My only choice was to follow. My heart pounding not from exertion but anticipation, I almost choked when I caught up to her.

Elsa tugged on Tristan sleeve. “Who is this?” she asked loudly.

Tristan glanced at her calmly. “My dad,” he replied, matter-of-fact.

Elsa’s eyes went wide, and she bounced in place. “Oh my gosh! Your dad is really handsome! No wonder you’re also cute!”

My cheeks flushed involuntarily. I looked down, startled.

Tristan's father stood still, composed, not a hint of surprise or amusement at Elsa’s outburst. His presence was quiet but firm, like someone who didn’t need to announce himself. I felt a subtle shift — Tristan’s father, this man, was different from anyone I had ever met.

Tristan turned toward his father. “This is Elsa. And her mom—” He gave a small, almost imperceptible look at his father, signaling acknowledgment.

“I’m Elsa, and this is my mom,” Elsa added cheerfully, tugging lightly at my sleeve.

I stepped forward politely. “I’m Seraphim.”

He paused for just a fraction of a second, then inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Christian.”

Tristan’s calm, assured look to his father made the tension in the air feel… contained. I exhaled softly and gestured toward the clinic. “I know you are here for Tristan’s medical clearance. Let’s go to my office.”

We moved inside, the children’s footsteps muted on the polished floor. Elsa held Tristan’s hand tightly, bouncing lightly on her heels. “This way,” I said firmly, but politely.

“You’ll need to sign the documents inside.”

As we walked, I observed him. Hands relaxed at his sides. Posture measured. He moved silently, yet every step seemed deliberate, precise. Handsome, yes — but controlled. His eyes scanned the surroundings. Tristan mirrored him in subtle ways: quiet, observant, cautious.

I couldn’t help but note the resemblance.

Inside the clinic, I asked him to take a seat.

“Please,” I said. “I’ll ask a few questions about Tristan. Just routine medical information.”

He nodded once and waited, still composed.

“Allergies?” I asked.

“None,” he replied, curt, efficient.

“Sleep pattern?”

“Normal.”

“Appetite?”

“Healthy.”

Behavioral changes?”

“Minimal.”

Short. Direct. No elaboration. But I caught a slight pause when I asked about stress. That tiny hesitation gave away more than his words could.

I handed him the forms. “Please sign here.”

His signature was clean, precise, measured. Every stroke reflected the kind of man who never lets anything slip, who controls every detail.

I remembered the kind of kid, Tristan was: a conservative child. Reserved. Observant. Careful.

“Mr Christian,” I said gently, leaning slightly toward him, “Tristan is very reserved. I think he’d benefit from being involved in extra school activities, so he can be around kids his own age. It helps him grow, socially.”

He considered me for a moment. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally. And with that, he rose, his movements smooth, composed, leaving the room with the same quiet authority he had entered with,along with Tristan matching his footsteps.

Once the door closed behind him, I returned to my work, but the echo of his presence lingered. I organized files, checked schedules, and addressed minor disputes, but my mind kept drifting to that controlled, deliberate figure, and the boy who mirrored him.

Elsa hummed as she reorganized her bag.

“Mama,” she whispered, “do you think Tristan’s dad is nice?”

I smiled faintly, unsure what to say. “I think he’s… careful.”

She nodded seriously. “Just like Tristan.”

I exhaled. Yes. Careful. Observant. Reserved. All traits Tristan carried naturally, all traits he learned from his father.

The nurse peeked out from behind the counter. “Seraphim, room three has a patient waiting for attention.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

Another employee approached with forms in hand. “Seraphim, should I handle the intake?”

“Yes,” I said firmly but not unkindly. “But make sure the patient gets full attention. Details matter.”

I glanced out the window, half-expecting the black cars to reappear. They didn’t.

But the memory of Christian’s measured steps, his quiet authority, and Tristan’s subtle look to him lingered.

And sometimes, quiet observation is the first step toward understanding.