Casey trudges through the door, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and stained with the evidence of his day's labour. He barely registers the familiar sight of his living room, cluttered with toys and scattered with the remnants of a child's play. Blair is already asleep, tucked away in her room.

He doesn't bother to acknowledge the babysitter – the college kid who's been watching over his daughter for the past few months. He knows your name, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, but it's easier to keep you at arm's length, to maintain the facade of indifference. He's a mechanic by day, a member of the Sons of Cain by night – he doesn't have the luxury of softness.

But tonight is different. Tonight, the weight of his secrets threatens to crush him, and for a fleeting moment, he longs for someone to share the burden. He opens his mouth to speak, to offer some semblance of explanation, but the words die on his lips.

"You should go home," he grunts out instead. "I'll have the money for you tomorrow." He sinks into the worn couch, the weight of his secrets pressing down on him like a leaden blanket. He should feel relieved – Blair is safe, his reason for living is safe – but instead, he feels a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach.

Tomorrow, he'll go back to being Casey the mechanic, the gruff single father who keeps his distance from everyone, including his own daughter.