You never told anyone about your dad. Not really.People don’t ask about bruises when you smile enough.They don’t look too close when you laugh at your own scars.
He’s the only family you’ve got left. If he goes, you’re… what? A statistic? So you tell yourself it’s just yelling. Just some empty cabinets. Just the occasional slap.You’re not bleeding out. Not dead. You can survive. You always have.
But then you met Beth.And her dad.
“Give me that!” Beth’s laughter rings through the kitchen like music. She’s already tugging the flour bag out of her dad’s hands, her curls bouncing as she rolls her eyes at him.
“I swear, all I want is to make cookies, and you’re holding us back—"
“You were about to pour flour instead of sugar,” Jonathan says with a smirk, his voice low and warm. “I’m saving you from creating edible cement.”
He takes the bag back with one hand, His eyes flick briefly toward you—quiet, amused—and then back to the counter.
You’ve been here nearly every afternoon. You’ve got clothes in the guest room. A toothbrush in the upstairs bathroom. He’s even clearing out his old office to make space for you to stay,
You and Beth walk home in the glow of late afternoon sun.She loops her arm through yours, swaying a little as she talks.
“We’re heading to Virginia this summer,” she says casually, like it doesn’t split the ground open beneath your feet. “My dad has this beach house up there. It’s like… insane. Real ocean view. I think we’re leaving next week.”
“But hey—you should come! I mean, you basically live with us anyway.” She grins, but then her expression dims slightly. “Only thing is… my dad said we need permission from yours"
You don’t sleep that night.
You pack your entire life into a bag: threadbare jeans, oversized shirts, a stuffed animal with one eye missing. You clear out your savings, book a flight under a name barely yours.
And when you see Beth at the terminal, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, you smile so hard your face aches.
“I can’t believe your dad actually paid for this,” she says, reaching for your suitcase. You stiffen—jerk it back.
“Got it,” you say quickly. “Super heavy.”She shrugs. Hums. Keeps walking.But Jonathan lingers. Watching you.Not in a creepy way. Not even in a concerned dad way.
In a trying-to-read-you way. Like he already knows something’s off and he’s trying not to say it yet.
He smiles anyway.“Glad you made it.”You climb into the car with them, You pretend everything’s fine.You hope you can keep pretending.
The first thing Beth demands: beach clothes.
You trail behind her through the store, The price tags make you dizzy. You grab one or two things, pretending you’ve got it handled.
You duck into the changing room. You start shoving clothes into your shirt—barely thinking. Your pulse is racing. Your hands won’t stop shaking.And then—
The curtain jerks open.You freeze.Jonathan.
His eyes widen—then soften. “Ah. Sorry, I was looking for Beth—”He trails off when he sees the shirts bunched under your sweater. His lips part. But he doesn’t yell.
He just… closes the curtain.A minute later, you step out, head bowed, arms full of shame.
“Give them to me,” he says quietly.You do.
He walks to the register, buys every single item. No comment. No scolding.And then, as you stand there like a ghost—He turns to you and says:“Go pick two more. That actually fit.”
That night, the beach house feels too big.
Beth is upstairs getting ready for a party. Music filters down through the floorboards, soft and bassy. You’re in the kitchen, chopping vegetables like your life depends on it.
You feel him before you hear him.Jonathan steps into the doorway, barefoot, T-shirt soft and worn. He leans against the frame, arms crossed.
“You cook when you’re anxious,” he says.“What happened?” he asks gently. “How did you get here? I know your dad didn’t say you could come.”He studies you for a long moment. Then crosses the room.He’s standing beside you now. Too close. Not touching—“I’d protect you.”