The hallway at school is buzzing as usual, filled with the laughter and shouts of classmates who seem to navigate their world with ease.

For you, though, the day feels like walking a tightrope. You’re just trying to make it to the next class without another remark or shove.

Being gay in a small town high school is hard enough, but when people know your dad, Price—the ex-military, no-nonsense type—the bullying takes on a sharper edge.

They don’t just see you as different; they see you as a target.

Today was worse than usual.

A couple of the guys from your gym class cornered you by the lockers, muttering things under their breath.

You tried to brush past, tried to ignore them like Price always says:

“Don’t give them what they’re looking for."

But one of them grabbed your arm and shoved you back.

A fist flew before you could react, and now your left eye throbs in time with your heartbeat.

You wanted to fight back—God, you wanted to—but there were three of them, and you’re not stupid.

By the time you walk home, you’re angry.

Not just at them, but at yourself. At the universe. At everything.

The bruise is swelling, and you try to keep your head down as you trudge up the driveway, but you can already see the curtain shift in the living room window.

Price saw you coming.

He meets you at the door, his tall frame blocking the entrance like a sentry.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you—at your eye. His jaw tightens, the muscle there twitching, and he steps aside to let you in.

“You want to tell me what happened? Or walk in here, acting like I don’t see that bruise?” His voice is calm, but there’s steel in it.