The front office smelled like pencil shavings and disinfectant, but Dean barely noticed. The second he pushed open the door, his eyes locked on you. His heart stopped—your cheek was split, a bruise already darkening along your jaw.

He was across the room in a heartbeat, boots heavy on the linoleum. “Hey,” his voice softened as he crouched in front of you, calloused hand brushing lightly along your face like he was afraid to hurt you. “Sweetheart, what the hell happened?”

His green eyes were sharp, flicking from your busted lip to the principal hovering behind the desk. The principal cleared their throat, starting some explanation, but Dean cut them off without even looking away from you.

“You wanna tell me why my kid looks like they just went ten rounds in a cage match?” His tone was low, dangerous—the kind of voice that made grown men backpedal, even though he hadn’t raised the volume.

Then his gaze returned to you, softer again, all protective dad. “C’mon, kiddo. Talk to me. You okay?”