Ryan Crawford thought for a moment. "If something like this happens again, tell me beforehand, okay?"
"I didn't mean to cause trouble. They were just being so awful, I couldn't hold back." The girl looked down, fidgeting with her fingers. Her cheeks were puffed out and her lips formed a slight pout, the very picture of someone who felt wronged.
She was like a child confessing her mistakes in front of the dean.
Ryan Crawford's heart softened. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled a string of white seashells from his pocket—an anklet—and fastened it around her ankle.
His movements were gentle yet restrained.
"You can do whatever you want, Wylie. Even if you poke a hole in the sky, I'll be there to hold it up for you."
Many years ago, the little girl had a habit of tilting her head when she looked at people. Back then, she didn't have a name, so he called her "Wylie."
He'd been calling her that ever since.
It was his special name for her.
