"Yes," I say, smirking faintly despite myself. "Like a normal human being."
He chuckles softly. "I preferred the attic."
"I hate you," I mutter, half-joking, half-serious.
"No, you don't." He's right. And that's the problem.
"You can't keep secrets from me," I warn.
"I won't," he replies. We stay in the driveway, neither moving, neither speaking for a moment. The street is quiet. A few cars pass by.
Oliver's laughter drifts faintly from the living room window, light and carefree, completely oblivious to everything we've just revealed.
"You think I'm like him?" he asks quietly.
I look at him. Really look at him. At the boy who hid in my attic. At the boy who stood calm while my parents confronted him. At the boy who chose honesty even when it could hurt him.
"Nah," I say finally. Relief washes over his face, subtle but real.
"But," I add, "you don't get to hide things from me again."
"I won't," he repeats. "Ever." Silence stretches between us again, but it's no longer suffocating. It's a quiet understanding, a fragile bridge of trust.
Jason's POV
I don't leave. I probably should. Most guys would. Get caught in a girl's attic. Exposed as the son of a notorious ex-convict. Face her father's steady, assessing stare.
Yeah. Most guys would walk away. But I stay. Because walking away is exactly what my father would do. And I'm not him. The evening air is cool against my skin, but my hands are warm — tense — stuffed deep into my pockets so Molly doesn't see them clench.
I can still hear her father's voice in my head.
You understand why this concerns us. I do. I've understood that my whole life. The second people hear my last name, the shift happens. Subtle. Almost polite. But it's there. Curiosity. Judgment. Distance.
I learned early how to stand still through it. How to keep my expression neutral. How to let silence stretch without filling it with excuses. Because once you start defending yourself for someone else's mistakes, you never stop.
The front door opens. She steps out.
Molly.
And for a second — just a second — I brace myself. For anger. For disgust. For that look. The one I've seen too many times at school.
"You stayed," she says.
Of course I did.
"I said I would."
She studies me like she's trying to read something under my skin. I wonder what she sees now. Not the boy who teased her about marriage. Not the guy who hid in her attic like some criminal stereotype.
Just… Daniel Reyes' son. The title follows me everywhere.
"You think I'm like him?" I ask before I can stop myself. I hate that I ask it.
Hate that I need to know. She looks at me — really looks at me.
And when she says no, something inside my chest unclenches. I didn't realize how tight it was. But relief doesn't erase reality. Her father wasn't wrong. My name carries weight.
Trouble doesn't disappear just because someone finishes a sentence in prison. My father says he's changed. He says prison fixed him. He says regret is heavy. But regret doesn't undo headlines. It doesn't undo the whispers.
It doesn't undo the way mothers pull their daughters a little closer when they hear who I am. I made a decision three years ago. The day the trial ended.
I wouldn't be him.
No shortcuts. No gray areas. No "just this once." Because for me, there is no "just once." There's only proof. Proof I'm different. Proof I'm not wired the same. Proof I can choose better.
And then Molly happened. She didn't know my last name at first. She didn't know the weight attached to it. She just looked at me like I was… me. Not a cautionary tale. Not a risk.
Just Jason.
That look? I didn't want to lose it. So I waited. And waited. And suddenly waiting turned into hiding. And hiding turned into lying. And now here we are. Her parents know. She knows.
And I'm standing in her driveway feeling like the ground could shift any second.
"You should've told me," she says quietly.
"I know." That's the worst part. I knew. Every time I almost said it. Every time I rehearsed the words in my head. My father went to prison. Simple sentence. Impossible weight.
"I didn't want you to see me differently," I admit.
She doesn't answer immediately. That silence scares me more than her father did.
"I don't," she says finally. I search her face for cracks. For doubt. For the beginning of distance. But she looks steady. Just… thinking.
Her father's boundary echoes in my head. Front door. No more hiding.
No more attic ladders. No more shadows. Part of me hates that. Because shadows are easier.
In the dark, you don't have to explain yourself. In the dark, you don't risk rejection. But light? Light demands accountability. And if I want to be different than my father, I can't operate in the dark.
"Front door next time," she says. I almost smile.
"Front door." It feels strange. Official. Exposed. But maybe that's the point. She tells me I can't hide things again. She says it like a warning. I nod like a promise.
Because if I mess this up — if I give anyone even a hint that I'm sliding toward his mistakes — it won't just confirm their fears. It'll confirm mine.
A car passes at the end of the street, headlights sweeping briefly across us before disappearing. For a second, the light catches her face. She looks tired. Overwhelmed. But she's still here. That matters.
"You don't get to decide what I deserve," she told me earlier.
That line's still sitting with me. I've spent so long trying to protect people from my last name that I didn't realize I was making decisions for them.
Maybe that is its own kind of control. I don't want to be that either.
"I'm not him." he says.