The fridge's low hum cuts through the silence at 1:43 a.m., louder in Lena's ears than it should be.
She stands barefoot in the kitchen, the cold tile biting at her soles, wearing a thin tank top that clings to her skin. The house is cloaked in darkness, heavy with a quiet that presses against her chest. Her breath carries the sharp tang of whiskey she couldn't finish, her eyes swollen and bloodshot from tears she won't admit to shedding.
Behind her, the back door groans open, a soft creak as if the house itself is warning her. Boots thud against the hardwood, each step a jolt in the stillness.
Jack's back. Her stepdad.
She doesn't turn immediately. Not yet. She can't.
He moves silently, a presence that fills the room without a word. Something heavy… a tool bag, maybe… lands on the table with a dull thunk. When Lena finally risks a glance over her shoulder, her throat tightens. He's half-undressed, his damp shirt unbuttoned, sticking to his broad chest, a streak of sawdust dusting his jaw. Bourbon in one hand, cigarette glowing at his lips, he looks like trouble worn thin by exhaustion, his eyes catching the dim light from the window.
"You're back," Lena says, her voice soft but edged with something she can't quite hide.
"Couldn't sleep?" His voice is gravel and heat, a low rumble that slips under her skin.
She shrugs, a small twitch of her shoulders, and turns back to the counter. Her fingers graze a wooden trinket, a carved sparrow Jack made for her mother years ago, now gathering dust.
The memory of Danny's voice from earlier tonight, sharp and cutting, flashes through her mind: You're nothing without me. She grips the counter, grounding herself before the anger rises.
Jack's gaze lingers, heavy and unyielding. "You're shakin'." His tone softens, but there's an edge to it. "That bastard hurt you again?"
Her breath catches. She recoils, suddenly defensive, pulling away from the counter and walking briskly toward the staircase, determined to put distance between them. She passes close by Jack, her shoulder brushing his as she moves past. "I don't wanna talk about it, Jack."
Jack watches her walk away, his gaze sharpening with each step she takes toward the staircase. His voice breaks the silence, low and jagged, laced with a mix of anger, hurt, and worry.
"What the fuck did he do to you, Lena? What the hell did that piece of shit do now?"
Lena doesn't answer. Not a word. She doesn't even slow down.
His footsteps echo as he follows her up the stairs, his voice rising with urgency. "Lena!"
Jack doesn't think, doesn't hesitate. His heart pounds as he moves, reaching out to grab her arm with a force that's almost desperate. He spins her around to face him, his fingers pressing into her skin, not to hurt, but to make sure she's there, with him.
"Sweetheart," his voice cracks, raw with worry, "What did he do?" His eyes search hers, but they're filled with more than just concern.
The look on his face is sheer agony, the kind that comes from loving someone so fiercely you can't bear to see them hurt. His breath catches in his chest, and for a moment, he's on the verge of breaking too.
"Did he hit you?" His voice breaks. He's practically pleading now, his hand trembling on her arm. "Please."
Lena can't meet his gaze. She looks away, her eyes avoiding his, a wall between them as tears blur her vision. But then, something snaps. The dam breaks. She doesn't know why, but her body moves before she can stop it, and suddenly, she's in his arms… clutching him with everything she has, crying like she's been holding it all in for far too long.
"Sweetheart..." Jack's arms tighten around her, his voice strained as he strokes her hair, his breath ragged. She can hear the tremor in his words as he swallows back emotion.
"I'm here... I'm here..." He pauses, almost choking on the next words. "Da-... Jack's here... fuck."
Lena's chest heaves as she sobs, a wave of guilt and hurt crashing over her. Her hands clutch at his chest, and she feels the warmth of his skin… so close, the faint scent of wood and sweat and something faintly metallic… the unmistakable scent of him. She buries her face deeper into his chest, clinging to him as though she might fall apart if she doesn't.
As her tears soak into his shirt, the memories of Danny's words come flooding back… sharp, cruel, poisonous words that cut through her soul.
"You're nothing without me."
"You'll always need me."
"No one will ever love you like I do."
The way his hands gripped her, the way his voice raised, how it felt when he called her weak, stupid, insignificant… those horrible things he made her feel like she was less than nothing.
Danny had always had a way of tearing her down, but tonight? Tonight was different. Tonight, the words had cut deeper. His words echoed in her mind like poison in her veins.
But in Jack's arms, she feels something else… something raw, protective. The warmth of his embrace wraps around her like a shield, and for the first time, she doesn't feel like she's drowning in the weight of those words.
Her hand moves up, brushing the skin of his chest, his warmth radiating under her fingers. She feels the steady rise and fall of his breath, the strength in his muscles, the faint texture of the tattoo beneath her fingertips. He's not forcing her away. He's not belittling her. He's just holding her.
And in that moment, everything feels so much safer.
The sound of Clarissa's footsteps cuts through the air like a slap, snapping both of them back to reality. Lena's heart skips, and Jack's body goes still. His arms drop away instantly, as though he's just remembered where he is. They pull apart with an urgency neither of them understands, as if their skin burned from the touch, as if they hadn't just been clutching each other a moment ago.
They let go fast, too fast. Stepdad and stepdaughter, right? Nothing more. Nothing less.
Lena can't look at him, and Jack can't find the words to break the sudden awkward distance between them. The silence between them is thick with unsaid things, but neither of them knows how to put any of it into words. Not with Clarissa right there.
The sound of Clarissa's voice breaks the tension, sharp and cutting through the fragile moment. "Lena?" Her tone is cold, indifferent, like the weight of the situation doesn't register. "What the hell's going on in here?"
Jack doesn't answer, frozen. His eyes dart to Lena, filled with guilt, regret, confusion. He pulls back instinctively, creating space, trying to pretend nothing happened, trying to hold onto control even though the ground beneath him feels like it's shifting.
Lena stands still, her body stiff, her chest still tight from crying, but she pushes everything down, like she always does. She can't look at Clarissa. She can't look at Jack. She feels like she's been caught in something she can't explain, something she shouldn't have felt.
And then, Clarissa, without missing a beat, says something so dismissive, so harsh, it feels like an ice bucket to the face. "Jack, let her handle her own shit," she snaps. "You take care of her too much. She's not a child."
Lena's breath catches, the words cutting deeper than they should. Clarissa never sees it. She never feels it. Her mother just doesn't care.
Jack's jaw tightens, but he doesn't say anything. His gaze flicks to Lena, regret pulling at his insides as he watches her shrink beneath her mother's words.
Clarissa doesn't even notice, her voice carrying the same dismissive tone. "Go to bed, Lena. It's late."
The moment shatters. What was supposed to be comfort, healing, and connection is now nothing. Jack can only watch as Lena turns, silent, walking toward the stairs, leaving him with a weight in his chest he can't explain.
He wants to go after her, to fix this, to make it right, but Clarissa's presence, her apathy, hangs between them. She's the one who can't see, who won't see.
Jack stands frozen, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, watching as Lena's back fades into the shadows.