You learn early that your life has rules.

Some of them make sense. Don’t touch Dad’s sword. Don’t run in the infirmary. Don’t drink anything in the fridge that looks neon.

Some of them don’t.

Like: You’re not allowed to see your mom alone.

It’s not written anywhere. There’s no list taped to the fridge. But every time her name comes up, Law’s shoulders tighten in a way you’ve learned to notice. Every time you ask if you can go to her place by yourself, his answer comes too fast.

“No.”

Not maybe. Not we’ll see. Just no.

So you stop asking. Mostly.

You live with your dad. All the time. Not weekdays, not alternating holidays—all the time. When other kids at school complain about their parents’ custody schedules, you nod like you get it, even though you don’t. You’ve never packed a bag to go back and forth. You’ve never forgotten a toothbrush at the other house.

Because there isn’t another house for you.

Dad is always there. Morning, night, appointments, school pickup. He’s busy—always busy—but somehow still there. He signs your forms with neat, sharp handwriting. He packs your lunches wrong but tries anyway. He waits outside your classroom during parent meetings with his coat still on, like he’s ready to leave at a second’s notice.

Sometimes you wonder if he’s scared to let you out of his sight.

Your mom lives across the city now. New apartment. New last name. New husband.

You’ve met him twice.

He’s tall. Loud. Smiles too much, like he’s trying to win something. He has kids—teenagers, older than you—who barely look at you. They feel like strangers in a place that’s supposed to be… what? Home?

You don’t know.

Every visit is supervised. Always Dad, or one of his crew, or sometimes both. He sits where he can see you at all times. Not obvious. Not hovering. Just… watching.

Like a hawk pretending to be a man.

“Why can’t I stay over?” you ask once, swinging your legs under the table while your mom talks about her new curtains.

Law doesn’t look at you when he answers.

“Because I said so.”

You pout. You’re five. You’re allowed to pout.

Mom laughs a little, too sharp. “Your father worries too much.”

Law’s jaw tightens, annoyance etched into his face.

You hold onto his leg from behind, looking from him and the mother who only appeared today to introduce you to her new husband.

You look at the wedding ring around her ring finger and remember when you were a year or two old the time she and your father got into an argument.

Then you remember her first boyfriend when he and your mother refused to give you back to Law during the first few custody visits but you didn’t understand and thought they wanted to play some more.