I feel heat bloom behind my eyes—not tears. Anger. "Said by whom?"
"You know how this town is."
"And I'm done letting that matter more than reality."
Dad exhales sharply, pacing once like he needs to reset himself. "I thought you were seeing someone else."
"I was trying to survive," I say. "There's a difference."
His head snaps toward me. "And now you think this is a good idea? Dating him? At your age? At his?"
Gabe doesn't interrupt. He stands still, hands at his sides, letting me handle my own father. That alone calms some part of me.
Dad goes on, "You know how it looks?—"
"Stop," I cut in.
He blinks.
I step forward. "Everything you just said? Everything you're worried about? That's the problem."
His mouth presses into a flat line. "I'm trying to protect you."
"No. You're trying to control the narrative. The same way you did when I got pregnant. When I kept the baby. When I moved home. When I tried to take photos full-time instead of going back to the office." My voice stays even, but inside, something hot pushes up my throat. "You supported the version of me you wanted. Not the actual me."
My father's eyes flicker. He hates hearing that, mostly because he doesn't know how to refute it without sounding like a parent who never listens.
"Lena," he tries, "I'm not your enemy."
"Then stop acting like one."
A long, quiet beat sits between us.
Gabe finally speaks, his tone calm. "I'm here because your daughter asked me to be here. Not because I pushed myself into anything."
Dad turns to him, studying him the same way he studies broken tools in his workshop—like he's checking for flaws. "Are you taking advantage of her? Be honest."
"No." Gabe meets his stare without blinking. "I care about her. I care about her son. That's why I'm standing here."
That knocks my father off balance more than anger does. He frowns, confused, as if Gabe skipped a line in his script.
He shifts his attention to me again. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you don't listen," I answer, simple and true.
His shoulders sag for a second—a tiny crack in his certainty—but he straightens again. "And what about that man you went out with? Tom?"
Gabe's jaw moves at the name, but he stays quiet.
I push through the ache in my chest. "Dad, Tom… he wasn't what you thought. He was threatening me."
My father freezes. "Threatening?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
I swallow. "He knew about me and Gabe. And he kept implying he'd tell people. Twist things. Spread garbage about me. About what kind of mother I am. He said he'd make sure the town saw me the way he wanted."
