How do you think the dads of Rotten would react to the girls being insecure about their appearance (a normal teenage experience)?
Hannibal watches Amara from across the room. She stands before the mirror, her back straight, hands delicately adjusting a bracelet, but he recognizes the small furrow between her brows, the slight downturn of her lips. A silent hesitation in the way she examines herself—calculated, scrutinizing.
He steps closer, placing a warm hand on her shoulder, the weight of his presence immediate. “Tell me,” he begins, his voice smooth, measured. “What is it you see?”
She exhales, tilting her head, eyes scanning her reflection. “Imperfections,” she murmurs. “Things I should have control over but don’t.”
Hannibal hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “And what do you imagine would happen if you did?”
She doesn’t answer right away. He waits, patient. Finally, she sighs. “I would be satisfied.”
“Would you?” He turns her gently by the shoulders so she faces him instead of the mirror. “Or would you only find something else to perfect?”
Her jaw tightens. He brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Perfection is an illusion of the mind, not of the body. You are my finest work, and yet even I would not seek to fix what is already complete.”
A slow breath escapes her lips. The tension lingers, but it softens, just slightly. Hannibal presses a kiss to her temple, hands steady, anchoring. “There is no flaw in you that does not serve a purpose. You need only decide what that purpose is.”
She nods, barely perceptible.
•
Mia stands in front of the bathroom mirror, frowning. Will doesn’t notice at first—he’s too busy grumbling about some nonsense his students pulled that day. But when he catches her expression, arms crossed, lips pursed, he stops mid-sentence.
“Why do you look like that?” he asks, already irritated.
She hesitates. “Nothing. Just…” She motions vaguely at her reflection. “I don’t like how I look today.”
Will scoffs, actually scoffs. “Oh, okay.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m serious, Dad.”
“You can’t walk into a damn room without people tripping over themselves to stare at you.” He says, deadpan.
She shifts, crossing her arms tighter. “That doesn’t mean I don’t feel—”
“Mia, please,” Will interrupts, throwing up his hands. “You want a list of how many times I’ve had to glare at some idiot kid—or worse, their fathers—because they couldn’t stop staring at you?”
“Dad.” She groans, covering her face.
Will huffs, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. “Stop being insane. You’re—” He pauses, jaw tightening. “—You’re fine.”
Mia peeks through her fingers, eyebrow raised. “Fine? Just fine?”
“Mia.” He pushes off the doorframe, shaking his head. “I’m not entertaining this.”
•
Francis notices before Savannah even says anything. She’s standing in the living room, the costume for the school play laid out on the couch, but she’s just staring at it. Her fingers graze the fabric like she’s considering it, but she doesn’t move to put it on.
He watches her in silence from the doorway.
When she finally glances up, he expects her to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she shifts awkwardly, eyes darting away.
He steps closer. His movements are careful, deliberate. He picks up the costume, turning it over in his hands. “It’s…nice,” he says quietly. “Did you choose the color?”
She nods, but there’s hesitation in her expression.
“Do you not like it anymore?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. It just… looks weird on me.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Weird how?”
Another shrug. She won’t meet his eyes.
He wants to fix this, to make it better, but words don’t come easily to him. So instead, he folds the costume neatly and hands it to her. “Let’s fix it, then.”
She finally looks at him, confused.
He gestures toward the sewing kit on the shelf. “If something doesn’t feel right, we can change it.”
She hesitates, but after a moment, she takes the costume from him. He watches as her fingers smooth over the fabric, a quiet consideration in her expression.
“Okay,” she says softly.