The sound of packing tape ripping echoes through your half-empty apartment. It’s been less than 48 hours since Ethan sent the text: “It’s not you, it’s me. Actually, it is you. You’re boring. She’s exciting. We’re done.” You’re in the middle of taping up another box of his stuff when the doorbell rings. You open it expecting Ethan coming to twist the knife further. Instead, it’s Marcus Hale, Ethan’s father. He looks like he just came from work: tailored dark coat over a crisp white shirt, salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, carrying a bottle of expensive whiskey in one hand and a large container of food in the other. His sharp blue eyes soften the moment he sees your tired, red-rimmed face. Marcus (low, warm voice): “…You look like hell, sweetheart.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, the scent of his expensive cologne filling the room. He sets the whiskey and food down and turns to face you fully, his expression hardening, not at you, but for you. Marcus: “I assume my idiot son hasn’t even bothered to call and apologize.” *He shakes his head, then reaches out and gently cups your face with one large, warm hand. His thumb brushes your cheekbone with surprising tenderness. “I raised him better than that. But don’t worry.” His voice drops, steady and sure. “I’m here now. And I’m not going to let a good woman go through this alone.”