Page 72 of Dissonance

“Hmm.” That small sound grates, tension creeping into my shoulders as I wait for the rest of it. “He hasn’t been in the headlines lately.”

No, he hasn’t been because he’s a good kid, and I’ve been working my ass off making sure it stays that way.

Jess finds something urgent to do at the sink, grabbing a cloth and pretending to wipe it down while Ed becomes fascinated by his noodles.

“And what exactly is the long-term strategy with him?”

“New music, tours, brand partnerships,” I say. “He’s just become an ambassador for a huge international underwear company. Global campaigns, magazine spreads—”

“And you’re confident you can manage that alongside everything else?”

“Dad.” Ed’s voice is a quiet warning now, but I’m already past the point of accepting lifelines.

“What are you getting at?”

Dad sets down his fork, and that’s the thing about Thomas Calloway: he doesn’t shout, or belittle, or come right out and imply I can’t do this. What he says is always wrapped in care, framed as concern, delivered in the tone of a man who loves his daughter and genuinely cannot understand why she keeps refusing his help. That’s what makes it so hard to push back against, and why it cuts so deep, regardless. I can’t fault him for wanting to protect me. He’s just never accepted that his protection can feel like a cage.

“You’ve done extraordinary things,” he says. “I mean that, but eventually, with the weight of it all, you may find you’ve taken on more than one person can realistically manage on their own. You’d have more support with me. More resources. That’s all I’m saying.”

“That’s never all you’re saying.”

“Thea—”

“No, Dad. How many times do I need to tell you I’m not coming back?” I stop and take a breath. “I do have a lot on my plate right now. A lot more—”

My hand comes to my stomach.

“Shit,” Ed mutters as Jess makes a sound, his fork lowering.

Lockie’s hand curls around my hip, the weight of it grounding, the quiet clink of his plate going down on the counter sounding like a gunshot in the silence that follows.

My father stares at me. “Thea, what—”

“This conversation’s done,” I mutter, already moving toward where I last saw my bag.

Lockie’s there before I reach it, but I don’t stop. Not when Ed calls my name, not when Jess tries to stop me at the door, or when my mom’s concerned face appears in the hallway and I tell her I’ll call her. And not even once I’m down the driveway, fumbling with the car door, giving up entirely, and pacing instead. My heart’s pounding, embarrassment burning hot under my skin. That was a disaster.

“I knew that was going to happen,” I murmur as he opens the passenger door and waits. “He always does this. And the worst part is, I know he genuinely thinks he’s helping, but he just—” I drag a hand through my hair, turning away from the car before storming back. “I asked you to come. Why did I ask you to come?”

The words run out, and I stop pacing. Big, strong hands plant flat on the car, on either side of my head, boxing me in before I can turn away again. I blink up at him, his dark eyes holding mine, making it hard to look anywhere else.

“Lockie. I’m sorry.”

“You really think I’d let you deal with that alone?”

I shake my head. “That was a lot.”

“Aye.” He smirks. “It was. But he loves you. He’s just not very good at showing it without making it about what he thinks needs fixing.”

“That’s very…perceptive.”

“I pay attention.”

Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. “Thank you for coming.”

His finger tilts my chin up, thumb brushing along my lower lip in that way he always does, like he knows exactly what it does to me as he watches the shiver that ripples down my spine.

“Where you go, I go, Mo Chridhe.”