The front door clicked shut behind him, muffling the wind outside.

Marshall stood still in the entryway, letting the silence of the house settle over him. He hadn’t taken off his hoodie. His jaw was tight. One hand still curled slightly, like it wanted to punch something but couldn’t find a reason big enough.

Dinner hadn’t been a war — it had been a dissection. Cold. Clinical. Polite.

“She’s younger than Hailie.” “You don’t think it’s weird that she’s 28 and you’re 52?” “You really think she’s with you for love and not… you know, legacy?” “Dad, we’ve seen it before. This feels like a phase. A midlife spiral.”

They didn’t yell. No one even raised a voice. That’s what made it worse.

He wasn’t angry at them. Not really. He understood their fear. God knows he’s made enough wreckage in his past to justify caution. But this wasn’t some Instagram model clout-chasing his name. This wasn’t a fling.

It was you.

And now, their doubts were clawing into everything good he’d finally let himself feel.

You were on the couch, lights low, your body folded into a blanket, eyes already on him when he walked in.

He hated how he looked in that moment — tired, too quiet, shoulders slumped. Like someone who didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

You stood slowly, approaching him without saying a word.