48. Wes
WES
The cabinet hinge groans every time Jordyn opens it, a sound that grinds on my last nerve.
A simple fix. One screw, a little pressure.
That’s my excuse for being here, my hand gripping a screwdriver while the quiet of the house settles around me.
It’s a lie, and we all know it. I’m here because she almost ran.
Because for a few hours, those boxes stacked by the door weren’t just cardboard; they were a countdown clock to her disappearing.
I tighten the screw. The metallic scrape silences the squeak.
One problem solved. One small piece of this broken-down house put back in order.
From the living room, I hear Brody’s low hum, the sound he makes when he’s content, mapping out a city with his plastic dinosaurs on the rug.
Jordyn’s voice is a quiet murmur, a soft counterpoint.
They’re here. They’re safe. My job is to make sure it stays that way.
I drive the screw one last turn, the wood biting down hard. It’s not going anywhere.
Then it comes.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Firm. Hard. Not the tap of a neighbor dropping off misdelivered mail. This is the sound of someone who believes they have a right to be on the other side of this door. I go still, the screwdriver a heavy weight in my hand. Every protective instinct I own screams at once.
“I’ll get it,” Jordyn calls out, her voice still light. She doesn’t hear what I hear. She doesn’t feel the air in the room suddenly go cold.
I move out of the kitchen, my footsteps silent on the worn linoleum. “Jordyn, hold on.”
But she’s already at the door, her hand turning the knob. The lock clicks open. The sound is like a gunshot in the quiet house.
Sunlight floods the entryway, framing a man’s silhouette.
He’s average height, average build, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
I see Jordyn freeze. It’s not a flinch or a step back.
It’s a complete system failure. The blood drains from her face, leaving her skin the colour of ash.
Her hand falls away from the door, limp at her side.
I don’t need an introduction. I know exactly who this is. The ghost. The reason for the boxes. And he’s standing on her doorstep.
The man on the porch wears concern like a cheap suit. It’s cut to fit but hangs all wrong. His gaze skims over Jordyn, a quick scan that dismisses her entirely before it takes in the room behind her. He’s cataloguing, calculating. The boxes. Me. His eyes are cold, transactional.
“Jordyn. We need to talk.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact, an announcement that his presence grants him certain rights. He steps forward, assuming entry.
I see Jordyn flinch, a tremor that runs through her whole body. She’s a statue carved from fear. Her breath hitches, a tiny, broken sound in the sudden quiet.
That’s my cue. I don’t run. I don’t shout.
I walk. Two steps, deliberate and silent, closing the distance until the space is mine.
I plant my feet in the doorway, a solid mass of muscle and bone between him and everything inside this house.
My shadow falls over him. I leave enough room that he can’t claim I touched him, but not enough for him to get past. He stops, his polished shoes a foot from my boots.
His manufactured smile flickers. He looks me up and down, trying to place me, to categorize the threat. I meet his gaze, my face a blank wall.
“You’re not coming in.” My voice is low, a gravelly rumble that doesn’t carry past the porch. It’s not a debate. It’s the final word.
Kyle shifts tactics immediately. The manufactured concern melts away, replaced by something softer, more practiced. His shoulders drop. His voice takes on a wounded quality, the tone of a man who's been wronged but is trying to be reasonable about it.
"This isn't about you," he says, his eyes sliding past me to find Jordyn behind the barrier of my body. "This is about my son."
The words waft through the air like smoke.
I feel Jordyn go rigid behind me, hear the sharp intake of breath that tells me he's hit exactly where he aimed.
Kyle's gaze lingers on her, reading her reaction, feeding off it.
Then his attention snaps back to me, and the mask slips, revealing the calculation underneath.
"This isn't your family."
The words are delivered with surgical precision.
Not angry. Not heated. Just a simple statement designed to cut me down to size, to remind me of my place in the hierarchy he's constructed in his head.
He expects me to step aside, to acknowledge that biology trumps everything else.
That his claim is older, stronger, more legitimate than whatever I think I've built here.
Behind me, I feel Jordyn's world tilt. I can sense her preparing to crumble, to accept that he's right, that she's been living in a fantasy. That the boxes by the door were always the only real option.
I don't look at her when I answer. Don't check for permission or approval. Don't soften my voice or hedge my words with uncertainty.
"Yeah. It is."
The statement lands without heat, without hesitation. Just fact. Not defensive, not aggressive. I'm not arguing with him or trying to convince him of anything. I'm telling him how things are, the same way I'd tell him the sky is blue or fire burns.
Kyle blinks. His polished composure cracks around the edges. He wasn't expecting that level of certainty, that complete lack of doubt. He was counting on me being uncertain about my place here, ready to be pushed aside by the reminder that I'm not blood.
"I'm sorry, who exactly are you?" His tone sharpens, trying to regain control of the conversation. "Because last I checked?—"
"Last you checked was several years ago." My voice stays level, conversational. "Things change when you're not around to check."
The color drains from his face, then floods back in a rush of red. His jaw works silently for a moment, processing the hit. Good. Let him process. Let him understand that this isn't going to be the easy conversation he planned.
From the living room comes the soft sound of Brody's humming, completely unaware that his world is being threatened from the front porch. That innocent sound crystallizes everything for me. This man walked away from that. Left it behind like it was nothing.
He doesn't get to walk back in.
Kyle's expression shifts like a computer recalculating. The wounded father act dissolves, replaced by something sharper, more calculating. His gaze moves past me to the room beyond, taking inventory of what he's up against. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken threats and promises.
"I see." His voice carries a different weight now, stripped of the artificial warmth. "Well, this is... interesting."
He's not backing down. He's regrouping. The difference is subtle but crucial. A retreat would mean acceptance of defeat. This is strategic withdrawal, the pause before a different type of attack.
"You know, Jordyn," he says, his voice carrying past my shoulder to where she stands frozen behind me. "I've been thinking about Brody a lot lately. About what's best for him."
The words are poison wrapped in concern. I feel Jordyn's shaky breath, the way her body goes rigid at the implication. He's not here for reconciliation. He's here to take.
"Stability is so important for kids like him," Kyle continues, his tone conversational, reasonable. "Routine. Structure. A proper family environment."
Each word is a calculated strike. He's building a case, laying groundwork for something bigger than this doorstep confrontation. My hands flex at my sides, the screwdriver still gripped in my right fist.
"You done?" I ask.
Kyle's smile returns, but it's different now. Sharper. More honest in its insincerity.
"For now." He takes a step back, his polished shoes scraping against the concrete. "But this conversation isn't over, Jordyn. We have things to discuss. Legal things."
The threat wafts through the air like smoke. He's not just talking about visitation or custody. He's talking about using her situation against her. The men in her life. The unconventional arrangement. The ammunition she's unknowingly handed him.
But something else happens in that moment. Something Kyle doesn't expect.
Behind me, Jordyn's breathing steadies. The tremor in her voice disappears when she speaks.
"No, we don't."
Her words are quiet but clear, cutting through the tension like a blade. I don't turn around, but I feel the shift in her posture, the way she steps closer to my back instead of shrinking away.
Kyle's calculated composure flickers. This isn't the broken woman he expected to find. This isn't the isolated mother he could intimidate into compliance.
"Jordyn—"
"You heard her." I shift my weight forward, claiming another inch of space. "We're done here."
Kyle looks genuinely uncertain. His gaze darts between me and the voice behind me, trying to reconcile this reality with whatever scenario he'd constructed in his head. The woman who used to beg him to stay isn't begging anymore.
He takes another step back, his retreat no longer strategic but instinctive.
"This isn't over," he says, but the words lack conviction now. They sound like what they are—the empty threat of a man whose plan just fell apart.
"Yeah, it is."
Kyle turns and walks back toward his car, his shoulders set with forced confidence. But I see the hesitation in his stride, the way he glances back at the house like he's trying to figure out what went wrong.
Behind me, Jordyn's breath comes out in a shaky exhale. Not the broken sound of defeat, but the trembling release of someone who just discovered she's stronger than she thought.