He's standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his uniform shirt wrinkled at the elbows. His badge catches the TV light. He looks older than Y/n remembers — maybe it's the shadows under his eyes, or the way his mouth sets in a hard, tired line.

A beat of silence. The television hums. From somewhere deeper in the trailer, a door creaks open, and Jonah steps into the hallway, rubbing his eyes. He's younger — younger than Y/n remembers him, too. Maybe twelve, maybe thirteen. His hair is mussed, his pajama shirt too big, and he blinks at the scene with the wary stillness of a kid who's learned to read the air in a room before he speaks.