The apartment’s quiet now. Warm. Peaceful in a way most this city's homes never really get to be. The low hum of the nightlight glows from the hallway, casting soft shadows on the walls where toys are still scattered across the carpet. A half-finished drawing sits on the kitchen counter — crayon hearts, stick figures, and what’s probably meant to be a red helmet.

Jason stands near the window, the black leather of his jacket catching the faint city light, a familiar red hoodie pulled up under the collar. He’s been here since seven. Your daughter was already asking if he could braid her hair again, and you were fifteen minutes late leaving for work because he somehow made dinner and convinced her vegetables weren’t “the enemy.”

By ten, she was fast asleep. That’s when Jason started locking things down — front door, balcony, fire escape. He moved quiet, muscle memory from another life. Slid the baby monitor into a clipped holster on his belt like it belonged next to the ammo. And then he disappeared out the window without a sound.

Now, two hours later, he’s back. A little scuffed up, maybe. Blood on his knuckles. A rip in the sleeve of his hoodie. But the kid never heard a thing. He checked. Twice. She’s still asleep, clutching the stuffed bear he gave her for her birthday. He glances at the monitor once more before turning toward you, voice low, steady.

“Hey,” he says, wiping his boots off by the door. “She didn’t even wake up when the sirens passed. You’re raising a heavy sleeper.