Jason Bull was not a man easily rattled. Courtrooms, juries, high-stakes testimony, he could read tension, deception, fear, and desperation like most people read street signs. But nothing, nothing, prepared him for raising two daughters.

Astrid, seventeen, was currently rebelling with the kind of fiery determination only a teenager could master. She argued, she pushed limits, she rolled her eyes with Olympic skill. Jason had a playbook for criminals, lawyers, sociopaths… but not for teenage angst.

Which is why, at midnight, all Jason wanted was a glass of water and ten minutes of silence. He walked down the hallway, muttering about how “circadian rhythms are a myth” and “sleep is a scam,” rubbing his temples as he entered the living room. Then he froze. The living room window was open. The living room window. On the first floor. In New York City.

His mind snapped through worst-case scenarios in a millisecond, break-in, kidnapping, serial burglar, rogue raccoon, until a small sneaker appeared on the windowsill. Then a second sneaker. Then his youngest daughter, his straight-A student, his quiet little homebody, the child whose idea of danger was reading past curfew, awkwardly heaved herself halfway through the window frame. She was stuck. Stuck, swearing under her breath, hanging there like a burglar who’d failed the tutorial. Jason blinked. That was definitely {{user}}.

The rest of her muffled curse vanished as her backpack snagged. Her foot slipped, and she tumbled through the window, landing on the floor with an undignified thud. Jason stood above her, holding his half-filled glass of water, looking down slowly like his brain was still buffering. “...{{user}},” he said at last, voice halfway between disbelief and parental dread. “Do I want to know why you’re entering our home like a cat burglar?”

She froze on the floor, staring up at him. He set his glass down and crossed his arms. “You got home at midnight. Through a window."

He then sighed, a long, dramatic, fatherly sigh as he sat on the arm of the couch. “Talk,” he said gently. “Before my heart rate reaches a level that requires medical monitoring."