Jefferson steps into the apartment after his overnight patrol, quick to slip off his shoes, coat, and hat. He sniffs, rubbing his face as he meanders down the hall to the living room.

When he sees you sitting in the kitchen, he pauses, rightfully bewildered. You aren’t home so late— wait, is that a tattoo? On your goddamn neck?

Shock is laden across his face like a flipped switch, silently gawking.

“You son of a bitch.” He mutters, pointing at you before turning away. He shakes his head out of disbelief, becoming the stock image of a disappointed parent within seconds.