"Because I was terrified," he said simply. "Because I'd done things—created things—that I couldn't undo. And the people who wanted control of those things wouldn't stop at me. They'd go through you. All of you. Your mothers. Anyone I loved."
He turned to face me, and I saw my own eyes reflected back at me—storm-gray and too full of things that hurt.
"I thought if I disappeared, they'd focus on finding me instead of using you against me," he continued. "I thought I could draw their attention away long enough for you all to grow up strong and safe and together. The way I'd taught you to be."
"And did it work?" I asked bitterly.
"For a while." His mouth twisted. "But The Vanguard plays a long game. They waited. Watched. Let you all build lives and find people you cared about. And then they started applying pressure. Ethan. Lucas. Caleb. Jacob." His gaze locked on mine. "You."
"Sam Jarrow."
"Sam Jarrow," he agreed. "And when I saw that bomb vest, when I realized they were willing to kill you all just to send a message—" His voice broke. "I couldn't watch anymore. I couldn't stay hidden and let my sons face that alone."
I wanted to stay angry. Wanted to hold onto the rage and hurt that had carried me through fifteen years of his absence. But looking at him now—older, grayer, worn down by years of hiding and watching and carrying the weight of too many secrets—I couldn't.
He looked tired. Human. Breakable.
"I kept tabs," he said again, softer this time. "I know that's not enough. But I need you to know that I watched you become one of the best damn operators in the field. I saw every mission report I could get my hands on. Every commendation. Every time you put yourself between danger and someone who needed protecting."
His hand moved like he wanted to reach for me but didn't dare.
"I watched you walk away from active duty and disappear into contract work," he continued. "Watched you drift. And it killed me, Gideon. Killed me to see you lost and alone and not be able to tell you why. Not be able to pull you back."
"I wasn't lost," I said quietly. "I was hiding. Same as you."
He flinched like I'd hit him.
"But then I found Hazel," I continued. "Or she found me. Or we found each other. I don't know. But she made me want to stop hiding. Made me want to build something instead of just survive."
"I know." His smile was sad and proud and broken all at once. "I saw that, too. Saw the way you looked at her. The way you planted yourself between her and danger without even thinking about it. That's when I knew I had to come back. Because you'd finally found something worth staying for. And I'd be damned if I let The Vanguard take that from you."
The words settled between us, heavy and true.
"I'm proud of you," he said, voice rough with emotion. "Of all of you. Every single one of my sons. You became exactly what I hoped you'd be—strong, capable, loyal. You found each other across impossible distances. You built families. You stood together even when the world tried to tear you apart."
His hand finally moved, landing on my shoulder with a weight that felt like fifteen years of absence and love and regret all compressed into one touch.
"You were never nothing, Gideon," he said again. "You were always everything. And I'm sorry I wasn't there to tell you that when you needed to hear it most."
Something cracked open in my chest—something I'd kept locked and guarded since I was a kid and my world ended.
"I don't know how to forgive you," I said honestly. "I don't know if I can."
"I know." He nodded, accepting it. "And I'm not asking you to. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I just need you to know that I never stopped being your father. Never stopped loving you. Never stopped watching and hoping and praying that you'd find your way to something good."
"I did," I said. "I found Hazel. And the inn. And something that feels like it might be home."
"Then hold onto it." His grip tightened on my shoulder. "Hold onto her. Build that life. Let me help keep it safe."
I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw not the hero I'd worshipped as a kid or the ghost who'd haunted me for fifteen years, but just a man. Flawed and scared and trying his best with impossible choices.
"I'm still angry," I said.
"Good." His mouth curved slightly. "You should be."
"And I don't trust you. Not completely. Not yet."
"I'll earn it back," he said. "However long it takes."
