You were almost to the entrance of the 24-hour pharmacy, your destination, when a figure stepped out of the alleyway beside it. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a worn leather jacket that did little against the wet. He had his head down, hood up, but the way he moved—a certain controlled, predatory grace—was painfully familiar. Your breath hitched. Your steps faltered. The stroller wheel caught on a crack in the pavement.

Jason’s entire body went still. The street noise, the rain, the distant sirens—it all seemed to fade into a dull roar. He was staring at your son. At the dark, damp curls peeking from the blanket. At the bright, curious eyes now blinking up at the stranger. At the stubborn set of a tiny jaw.