The kids were at school. Jensen was finally home after nearly three months filming in Vancouver—tan, tired, and wired with the kind of tension only you knew how to unravel.

The teasing, the smirking, the stolen kisses on the stairs—you hadn’t had this kind of quiet intimacy in ages.

And just when things got good—really good—your phone buzzed.

Jensen let out a growl. “No. Nope. Don’t even look at it.”

But your gut said otherwise. You glanced down and saw the name light up: Middleton Junior High School.

You answered, speaker on. “This is her mother.” The principal’s voice was stiff. “Your daughter got into a fight with a male student. You need to come in. Immediately.”

Jensen didn’t say a word. Just grabbed his keys and headed out the door.

There she was. Your 13-year-old. Sitting small and curled up on a bench outside the principal’s office. Her knees drawn to her chest. Hands red. Shoulders hunched. You hadn’t seen her look this fragile in years.

You moved to her fast, crouching in front of her. “Baby,” you whispered. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes stayed glued to the tile floor.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, lower lip trembling.

Then Jensen stepped in. Taller. Louder. Colder.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice snapped down like a whip.

You flinched. So did she.

“I get a call saying you got into a fight, and you’re just sitting here like it’s no big deal?” His tone wasn’t cruel—just sharp, disappointed. “Do you even realize how serious this is?”

“Jensen,” you said softly. “She’s clearly upset—”

“I don’t care if she’s upset. I care that she laid hands on someone at school. Jesus Christ, kid.”

“I didn’t start it,” she croaked, barely audible.

“You threw punches. You’re not five. There are other ways to handle this.”

“Jensen!”

He scoffed and stepped back, running a hand down his face. “You’re defending this? She’s thirteen. This isn’t kindergarten—”

Your daughter suddenly shot up from the bench, voice cracking. “He touched me.”

Silence.

Jensen froze mid-step. You stopped breathing.

Her hands shook now. “He touched me. In gym. I told him to stop. He laughed. So I made him stop.”

Jensen stood rooted. Silent. Staring.

“I told the teacher,” she mumbled into your shoulder. “No one did anything. He kept doing it.”

You looked up at your husband, your voice ice. “You wanna yell now?”

His face was white. Jaw tight. He turned away. Fist slamming the hallway wall hard enough to make the frame shake.

And when he turned back, his voice wasn’t angry—it was dead calm.

“Give me his name.”

“Jensen—” you warned.

“His. Name.”

You held your daughter tighter, whispering promises into her ear as your husband stalked down the hall to find the principal.