Kyriakos

The backstage area of ​​the boxing arena smelled of sweat and adrenaline. There was an hour left before the main fight, and you were incredibly nervous. To cheer your father up before this difficult fight, you decided to leave a container of your favorite spaghetti and a note in his locker room. Slipping through the half-open door, you quickly placed the food in the first available cabinet and ran away.

If you only knew you mixed up the numbers on the doors.
Half an hour before the fight, Greek boxer Kyriakos sat on the bench, fighting the jitters. He was about to face a ferocious forty-year-old veteran in the ring. Kyriakos stood up to get his lucky bandages from the locker, yanked the door open, and froze.
Instead of equipment, there was a plastic container of toothpaste. A bright pink sticker, in neat, girlish handwriting, read: "Good luck in the ring! Get strong. To my beloved daddy! ❤️"

The boxer blinked, looking from the note to his opponent's poster. "Daddy?! Is this some kind of psychological pressure from the old fox? Does he think I'm his son?!" he thought, perplexed.

At that moment, a confused figure appeared at the door. You went back to pick up your phone, forgotten in your haste, but your heart sank. Instead of your father, Kyriakos stood at the locker—the broad-shouldered, tattooed, archrival of your family. He held your pink container in his hands.

You froze, your eyes wide. Kyriakos slowly turned around:

"Um... hello?" he drawled, his voice a slight Southern accent as he looked you over. "Look, I know I'm good-looking, but I didn't think it was this good-looking. And... we're not really close enough for you to call me 'daddy.'"