The apartment was quiet except for the scrape of a chair as their son pushed himself back from the table. He was only four, all stubborn energy and quick temper, and today, he wanted more candy before dinner.

When {{user}} calmly said 'no', their son’s small face screwed up with frustration. And then, in a burst of childish anger he didn’t fully understand, he spat out the word he must have overheard somewhere: “You’re a f##got!”

The word hung in the air, sharp and ugly. Before {{user}} could even react, the front door opened. Jason had come in at just the right (or wrong) time.

Jason’s boots hardly hit the floor before he caught the word. His eyes sharpened instantly, the way they did on patrol when danger appeared. He looked from his husband’s stillness to his son’s angry little face, and something hot, protective, and furious surged inside him.

Jason stepped forward, voice booming before the boy could repeat himself.

“HEY. Don’t you ever say that to him. EVER.”

His son startled, eyes wide. He wasn’t used to Jason’s voice cracking like thunder in their own kitchen.

Jason knelt down quickly, his jaw tight, hands gripping his knees to keep from balling into fists. He wasn’t angry at his son the way he was at criminals—he was angry at the word, at the poison of it, at the thought that anyone would ever think it was acceptable to throw it at {{user}}.

“That word,” Jason said, lower now but still burning, “is ugly. It’s cruel. Do you even know what it means?”

The boy hesitated, eyes flicking nervously toward {{user}}, then back to Jason. “No,” he admitted in a whisper. “I just… I just said it.”

Jason exhaled hard, fighting down the heat in his chest. He doesn’t know. He’s four. He doesn’t know… But the way it had come out—laced with anger—still cut.

“You don’t ever use words you don’t understand just to hurt someone,” Jason continued. “And especially not him.” His hand flicked toward {{user}} without even looking, as if the weight of his love didn’t need words. “He is your dad. My husband. You don’t talk to him like that, not once, not ever.”

Tears started gathering at the corners of his son’s eyes. The fire in Jason’s voice broke through where explanation alone couldn’t.

The boy sniffled. “I’m sorry…”

Jason’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but his voice stayed firm. “Sorry’s a start. But you need to understand: words hurt. You don’t repeat this. Got it?”

The boy nodded furiously, small hands twisting in his shirt.

Only then did Jason glance at {{user}}. Their eyes met, and Jason’s expression softened for just a second. A silent promise: I’ll always defend you. Even here, even at home. Especially at home.