JAKE

I didn't want to spend the day on my own. So here I was, on the road, hoping to make it to Ithaca before dinner.

For a while, I just drove, letting myself enjoy the quiet, but somewhere between two small towns, my mind slipped to a memory I didn't let myself linger on often... Thanksgiving, years ago.

Emma had been in the passenger seat of this same car. She kept teasing me with that sharp, familiar sarcasm that made me want to pull my hair out sometimes, and made me fall a little deeper in love every damn time. All while pretending she wasn't nervous about meeting my parents.

I remembered how restless her hands were, how she kept fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve every few minutes. I remembered reaching over at every stoplight, taking her hand in mine, rubbing my thumb over her knuckles until her knee finally stopped bouncing.

And of course, I remembered the sour Skittles and how her whole face had lit up a little when I handed her the packet, even though she knew damn well I was bribing her into breathing normally.

That memory still stung sometimes, and it wasn't because she had lied to me, but because she had lied to them. My parents, who had welcomed her into their home and adored her the second she walked through the door. My mom, who hugged her too long and asked her about art and listened as if she were absorbing every word.

But that sting had softened lately. Because now, with a hell of a lot of hindsight, I could imagine how heavy that trip must've felt for her.

The driveway came into view before I realized I had stopped paying attention to the turns, but muscle memory had done its job. It brought me home.

I pulled in, parked, and just sat there for a moment, hand resting on the steering wheel.

The house looked the same. The porch light still hung a little crooked, the trees were getting ready for the approaching spring, and the swing set stood on the side of the backyard where I could still see it, carrying pieces of almost every version of me.

I remembered sitting on that swing as a boy, staring up at the sky with dreamy eyes, wondering what the big, wide world looked like. I remembered sitting there with Kaylee, pretending to be the responsible older brother, too afraid to swing too high in case she fell.

In high school, I had sat there preparing for debate championships or scribbling terrible poetry. Later, when I would slip outside during family gatherings to take calls, because criminals didn't take holidays, and neither did the people chasing them.

And I had sat there with Emma, too, hand in hand, talking about a future that now felt like a pipedream.

I let out a breath and stepped out of the car, gravel crunching under my shoes. I walked up the front steps, lifting my hand to knock. But the door swung open before I could touch it.

"There you are. Finally!"

My mom practically launched herself at me, her arms wrapping around my ribs with enough force to knock the breath out of me. She smelled like cinnamon, and I knew she must have been making my favorite cinnamon rolls, the ones that never tasted the same anywhere but here.

I let out a laugh against her shoulder. "Hey, Mom."

She pulled back only far enough to grab my face in both hands, turning it side to side like she was checking for any cracks.

Her eyes, mirrors of mine, softened as they took me in. I felt like she knew, without me saying a word, how much the decision had been a hurricane.

"You've lost weight," she finally said. "I told your father that job was eating you alive, and look at how your cheeks are hollow."

I laughed, grateful that she wasn't going to push for now. "Well, I'm here now, and you can feed me as much as you want."

She grinned and tugged me back toward her chest without saying a word.

Behind her, my dad stepped out onto the porch, hands tucked into the pockets of his flannel. He didn't rush. He just watched me for a moment with those steady brown eyes that had always been the calm center of this house.

When Mom finally let me breathe, he stepped forward and clapped a warm, grounding hand on my shoulder before pulling me into a hug.

"Welcome home, son."

"Hey, Dad." I smiled. "It's good to be here."

"Dinner is almost ready," Mom said, already heading back inside. "Derek, keep him company."

I frowned a little at that. Did they really expect me to be unraveling? But their obvious care loosened something in my chest, anyway.

My dad gestured toward the backyard, and I followed him down the side path. We made it to the patio and sat in silence for a few moments, watching the sky as it began to darken. My dad never rushed conversations, but I could tell something was burning on his tongue.

"You did a brave thing today," he finally said.

I let out a small huff. "You mean quitting my job?"

He looked at me, his brown eyes softening. "For choosing yourself."

I blinked, not saying anything.

"You chose the badge when you were young, and that took courage," he continued. "Letting go of it now took something even harder, but you finally allowed yourself to admit you needed something else."

I just looked at him, not trusting myself to speak, but feeling something warm bloom in my chest. My dad didn't usually mince words, and so I knew he meant them. And sitting here now in the backyard, where he taught me to ride a bike when I was six and where he hugged me the day, I got my acceptance letter from Quantico, the weight of his words landed in a way I wasn't prepared for.

"We're proud of you, Jake... your mother and I," he said softly. "And whatever comes next, you've got us."

I swallowed hard. It took me a second to find my voice. "I know. And I could never have asked for a better father. You taught me how to be brave."

He looked down, blinking fast, his jaw tightening the way it always did when he got emotional. For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then, my mom's voice carried out from the kitchen window. "Dinner's ready! Come inside, both of you now!"

I huffed out a laugh, grateful for the rescue. "We should go," I said, standing. "If we're a minute late, she'll come drag us inside herself."

My dad chuckled, brushing a hand over his eyes before rising with me. "You're not wrong."

And together, we headed back toward the house, toward warmth, and food, and the quiet love that had kept me standing more times than I could count.

Dinner was easy. Mom kept piling food onto my plate, ignoring every protest, while we talked about everything and nothing. But we didn't touch the future. Not yet. And I appreciated my parents more than I could ever say for that.

"Kaylee's loving California," Mom said, handing me the potatoes. "She called this morning, and apparently she's convinced Los Angeles was made specifically for her."

Dad snorted. "She said that about Manhattan during that internship. And Paris last winter at that show."

Mom rolled her eyes. "It wasn't a 'show,' Derek. It was Paris Fashion Week."

I laughed. "She's doing well, though, right?"

Mom smiled. "Yeah, she's busy, but happy. She's already assisting on her first runway show. She sent me a picture of the beach at sunset and said she finally understands why people pay obscene rent to live there."

I smiled, feeling proud. Kaylee had been dreaming of a fashion career since she was twelve. Seeing her make it happen felt... good, like at least one Parker kid had life figured out.

Dad leaned back in his chair. "As for me, retirement is a scam. A man can only reorganize the garage so many times."

Mom rolled her eyes affectionately. "He and the neighbors started a 'men's club.'"

Dad held up a finger. "It's not a club."

"It's absolutely a club," Mom countered. "They go fishing every week, fix fences that don't need fixing, and play baseball like they're still thirty."

I grinned. "And how's that working out?"

Dad sighed the sigh of a man betrayed by his own joints. "Let's just say we spend more time stretching than playing."

I laughed, and it felt easy, and right. For a moment, I just let myself watch the two of them, bantering across the table.

Thirty-six years of marriage, and they still looked at each other like they were living in some golden era the rest of us only heard about. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't some fairytale love story. But it was steady, the ease between them formed from decades of teamwork, compromise, forgiveness, and choosing each other even on the days they didn't want to.

I had always wanted that. Someone you could weather anything with. Someone whose hand you would hold when the future looked impossible. Someone who stayed, even when the storm hit.

I had had that, a love so steady and overwhelming that it changed the way I breathed.

But maybe some storms are too strong to survive together. Maybe in the wreckage, you end up drifting apart on separate rafts, with a current between you that's too strong to cross, no matter how much you want to.

My chest tightened, but I forced a small smile when Mom filled my plate again.

This wasn't the time to sink into the past, so I made myself focus on the present. It was the only thing in my control.