Page 12 of Wraith’s Promise

I smile despite myself. "Chaotic. We were close in age, competitive about everything. Who could climb higher, run faster, fight better. Our dad encouraged it, said competition made us stronger."

"Your dad sounds like he had opinions."

"That's putting it mildly." I take a breath, deciding how much to share. "He was military, his dad before him, whole family legacy thing. Made it very clear from the time we were kids that serving was the only honorable path, that anything else was weakness."

"Sounds intense."

"It was. He wasn't..." I pause. "He wasn't a good man, Dean. He drank too much, and when he drank he got mean. Ranger took the worst of it, always putting himself between me and Dad. Protected me more times than I can count."

Dean's expression darkens. "I'm sorry. I had no idea. That's… No kid should have to deal with that."

"No, they shouldn't. But it taught me something important, what kind of person I never want to be. What kind of environment kids should never have to grow up in." I manage a small smile. "So, in a weird way, maybe all that pain had a purpose."

"That's a generous way to look at it."

"The alternative is staying angry forever, and I tried that for a while. It didn't help." I take a sip of water. "What about you? What was your family like?"

He shifts on the couch, and I can tell this is uncomfortable territory. "Not great. My dad drank, got violent, too. I learned pretty early to stay out of his way, keep my head down. Left home at eighteen and never looked back."

"Any siblings?"

"No. Just me." He says it flatly, like it's a fact he's stated a thousand times and stopped having feelings about. "Which meant when things got bad, there was nobody to share the weight with. Nobody to tell me it wasn't my fault."

"It wasn't your fault," I say.

"I know that now." He looks at me directly. "But it took a long time to believe it."

We sit with that for a moment, both of us carrying scars from fathers who should've been better, who should've protected instead of hurt.

"What did you do after you left?" I ask. "Before Mariah, before the MC?"

"Worked a lot of different jobs. Lumberjack for a year, hard work but I liked it, being outside, using my body instead of my brain for once. Did electrical work for a while, learned I was actually pretty good with my hands. Drove trucks for eight months." He pauses. "Met Kate when I was trucking. She was working at a diner off I-90, and I stopped in one night. We got to talking, and six months later we were married. Kate got pregnant pretty fast. Mariah wasn't planned, but I was happy about it. Thought maybe this was it, you know? The family I never had growing up, the chance to do it right. But Kate..." He stops, jaw tightening. "Kate didn't want to be a mother. Said it almost immediately after Mariah was born. Said she felt trapped, that the baby cried too much, needed too much, that she couldn't do this."

"When did she leave?"

"Mariah was two. Barely two. Kate packed two bags, told me she regretted everything, and walked out. Haven't heard from her since. No calls, no letters, no child support. She just vanished like we never existed."

"I know I’ve said this before, but she was wrong, okay? About all of it."

"Thank you for saying it again."

"I'm not just saying it. That kid upstairs is extraordinary, Dean. Anyone who could walk away from her is fundamentally broken in a way I don't understand."

"She is extraordinary, isn't she?" His voice has gone softer, almost wondering. "Sometimes I look at her and can't believe I got this lucky. That she's mine."

"You didn't get lucky. You earned this." I lean forward slightly. "You showed up every day, you put in the work, you loved her even when it was hard. That's not luck. That's you being a good father."

"I haven't heard that in a long time. That I'm doing good at this."

"You're doing more than good."

We look at each other in the dim light of the living room, and I'm suddenly very aware of how close we're sitting, and how his eyes haven't left my face…

I should step back. Should say goodnight, head upstairs to my room, maintain the appropriate boundaries.

But I don't want to.

"How did you end up in Millhaven?" I ask instead, redirecting before the moment becomes something neither of us is ready for.