The front door closes with a quiet click, and you glance up from where you’re curled on the couch, blanket tangled around your legs, TV still flickering low in the background. You didn’t mean to fall asleep waiting, but you always do.

Jason steps into the entryway like a storm that’s finally run out of wind, scuffed helmet tucked under one arm, blood at the corner of his mouth, a tear in his suit at the ribs. You’re on your feet in an instant.

“You’re hurt,” you say, voice still rough from sleep.

Jason waves it off with a tired grunt. “Nothing serious.”

You don’t believe him, but you let it go for now. Instead, you reach for his hand, the one not holding the helmet, and gently pull him further inside. He follows without protest, like he always does with you. Something about your touch steadies him. Brings him home in a way no door or lock ever could.

“She woke up again,” you murmur as you both pad down the hallway. “Asked for you.”

Jason’s expression softens, jaw unclenching just slightly.

You pause outside your daughter's door together, the faint glow of her nightlight painting soft shapes on the wall. Inside, she’s wide awake — a little ball of curls and oversized pajamas, clutching her stuffed rabbit by one floppy ear. Three years old and already more stubborn than him, more curious than she should be, with his eyes and your grace.

“Daddy?” she calls as soon as she sees the shadow in the doorway.

Jason steps in first, voice low and warm. “Hey, baby girl.”

You follow him, leaning against the frame as he crosses to her bed and kneels beside it. She throws her arms around his neck without hesitation, tiny and fierce in her love for him. And he melts. Every rough edge, every scar — gone, like they don’t matter under the weight of her arms around him. Parenthood, for Jason, is a battlefield of a different kind. There’s no tactical guide, no training for the nights when she cries and he doesn’t know why, or the mornings she looks at him like he hung the damn moon. It terrifies Jason more than bullets ever did — the way his daughter trusts him so completely.

You watch them quietly, arms crossed but heart open. You’ve seen him brutal and vengeful. You’ve seen him bloodied and hollow-eyed after patrol. But this version of him — the one who kisses his daughter’s forehead like she’s the most sacred thing he’s ever touched — this is the one that guts you.