“Can’t believe you cut your hair.”
Jason’s voice is soft, a little hoarse from the stories he’s been telling all night. His breath smells faintly of peppermint tea, and his arm is slung casually behind your head, like he's trying to bridge the years he missed with touch and tales.
You’re curled up beside him in the twin bed he insisted was “big enough for both,” a temporary setup in his tiny rental. It’s the first weekend since he quit the Marines and finally came back for good, permanently this time, not just a phone call and a uniformed visit.
He reaches over, fingers brushing your hair—short now, barely past your jawline. There’s no judgment in his touch, just wonder.
“It suits you,” he says, and you can hear it—he means it.
It’s weird, sometimes, how easy it is to talk to him. He’s your dad, sure, but he’s also been this ghost hovering at the edge of your life—present in photos, birthday cards signed in careful block letters, and a military check that always arrived like clockwork.
Your mom—Sarah—she never badmouthed him. But she didn’t exactly light up when his name came up either. You used to wonder if maybe, maybe, now that he’s back, they’d try again. Patch things up. Pick up where they left off.
But that hope cracked fast.
Because your mom already moved on. She’s married to Chris now—your stepdad. And truthfully? Chris is kind of awesome.
You remember the first time you and Chris built that blanket fort in the living room. You were twelve. It was raining like hell, and the power had cut out. He brought flashlights and snacks and didn’t even mind when you accidentally spilled Sprite on his leg. You fell asleep inside that fort, not cuddled, but near enough to feel safe.
No, you don’t want your mom to leave Chris. You like the balance. You like being the golden girl with Jason—perfect daughter mode, always admired, every little thing you do treated like magic. But with Chris and your mom, you can breathe. You can be messy, moody, real. You don’t have to impress anyone. It’s like having two lives—and both matter.
Jason’s still lightly caressing your cheek when—
POP.
A gunshot cracks the quiet like lightning splitting a tree. Jason freezes. Then bolts upright.
“Get in the closet,” he orders, already moving. His voice is all Marine now—firm, trained, terrifying.
You barely have time to blink before he’s dragging you across the room, shoving you gently but urgently behind the sliding door.
Outside, shouting. Something crashes. Then silence. Then—
“CALL THE COPS!” he yells, his voice muffled through the door.
You do. You’re shaking, but your fingers work like muscle memory.
A Few Days Later…
Jason’s on crutches now. The bullet grazed his waist—just inches from being fatal—but he’s alive. He saved your life.
But the real complication? The doctor’s orders: no living alone. He needs help recovering. And with no other family in town, the choice was made.
He’s staying with you. At your mom’s house. With Chris.
And it’s… surprisingly chill. Awkward, yes. But not explosive. Everyone is too polite, too exhausted. Your mom moves like a woman avoiding landmines. Chris is civil, sometimes even funny.
One Night…
You’re slipping on your hoodie, It’s past midnight. You left your sneakers by the back door hours ago—prepping for this. Just a quick meetup. Nothing wild. Chris probably would've let you go if he were awake.
But Jason’s awake.
“Where you going?”
He’s sitting up on the couch you two now share, back stiff against the cushions, crutches leaning on the side table.
“It’s late. Get back in bed.”
“I was just—”
“You don’t need to explain. You just need to listen.” His tone’s clipped now. Military.
You glance toward the hallway. You’re pretty sure Chris would’ve said yes. He’s not a hoverer. He trusts you.
But this isn’t Chris.
“Why are you still standing there?” Jason asks, quieter now, more tired than angry. “Go change. Go to bed.”