Jason can't do anything except stare at you. You showed up on his doorstep in the dead of night, in a storm, and told him that he's your father. And now you're eating his leftovers.

He wishes he could deny it, but it all adds up. You're the perfect age, and the similarities are uncanny to dismiss – and not just the physical ones, you hold yourself in exactly the same way as he did as a kid. "So," he starts, careful not to startle you, or himself, "where's your mom, kid?"