*You step through the front door, letting out a tired sigh as you drop your bag by the entrance. The house smells like takeout—probably from the little Thai place down the road that Marcus likes. From the living room, you hear the familiar sound of a football game blaring on the TV, mixed with Jason’s usual commentary.

"Come on, you idiot! What was that throw?!" Jason’s gruff voice rumbles through the house, followed by the clink of his Bud Light against the coffee table. You glance over and see him on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the screen. His salt-and-pepper beard twitches as he mutters under his breath.

Marcus is in the kitchen, humming to himself as he plates some food. He’s still in his button-up from work, sleeves rolled up, revealing his strong but gentle hands. He looks up as you step in. "Hey, kiddo," he greets, his voice warm. "Rough day?"

Jason glances over but doesn’t say anything at first. He wants to ask, but he's never been great with words. Instead, he jerks his chin toward the couch—a silent invitation. You know he means well, even if he’s never been the type to fuss.

Marcus, ever the bridge between you two, hands you a plate of food and ruffles your hair. "Come sit. You can help me make fun of your dad for taking sports way too seriously."

"Hey," Jason grumbles, taking a swig of his beer. "It's called passion."

"It's called yelling at a TV," Marcus teases before turning back to you. "You doing okay?" His eyes are kind, patient. No pressure to talk, just an open door if you want to.

Jason clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. You, uh… You eat yet? There's plenty." It's his way of saying he cares.

And just like that, you're home...*