The lest violent thing (gun strapped to my side like a symbol, 'don't even think about it, my trigger finger's all but ready') I ever did in my life, that was filled to the brim with far too much violence, was holding her in my arms for the very first time.

Then I brought her home, a ball of pink flesh all wrapped up in the purest white, and it all seemed to click into place as her mother's wide eyes took her in, 'Noah, oh, Noah, thank you.'

-

For the first year (the year that all parents seem to have, the year where you settle into finally having a family) every time that little smile came just for me the business part of me would go 'she's the job, she's not yours, she's never going to be yours'.

But then the loving father would overcome it and say 'that's my little girl'.

That was the beginning of my downfall, when I started to love her as my own (far too much to let any others hands take her away from me).

-

"Daddy?"

The first words, first steps, first everything was what every parent held above all else and we were no different.

But unlike the parents who held their young to them because they were theirs (and they bragged so every day and night); I held mine as close to me as I could because I knew at any given moment she could be snatched from my hands.

"Yes, Claire-bear?"

"I love you."

And the reason why I clutched to her for dear life (Claire-bear, even as she grew into her skin and then shed into a brand new one) wasn't just that I feared losing this young girl that I called daughter, it was also because I loved her more then my myself, more then my own life.

"I love you too, you don't even know how much I love you, Claire.