I never thought summer break would turn into this. My name’s Blonde—yeah, everyone calls me that because of the sun-bleached hair I’ve had since I was a kid, always out in the light, surfing or hiking around the edges of the valley. I’m 17 now, and this was supposed to be my punishment, my mom shipping me off to live with my dad in his quiet corner of Westview, one of those west side suburbs with tidy lawns and family homes that look like they popped out of some old sitcom. Dad—Reed, though I never call him that to his face—has always been this towering figure, strict as hell, with rules sharper than the edges of those black glass towers down in the Obsidian Quarter. He runs his house like a fortress, everything in order, no room for chaos. I figured it’d be three months of hell, grounded in his split-level ranch, mowing the lawn, and listening to lectures about responsibility.

But from the moment I stepped through the front door, dragging my duffel bag across the polished hardwood floors, something shifted. Dad was waiting in the kitchen, arms crossed over his broad chest, that salt-and-pepper beard framing a stern jaw. He was 42, built like he still hit Lunar Fitness every morning—thick arms from years of manual work, a chest that strained against his flannel shirts, and legs like tree trunks from all those hikes we used to take up into the Faolan Hills when I was younger. “Blonde,” he said, his voice deep and commanding, like thunder rolling down from the Bardulf Peaks. “You’re late. Drop your stuff in the guest room and come help with dinner. We’re grilling steaks tonight.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah, Dad. Sorry about the bus delay.” It was awkward at first, the air thick with unspoken tension. We’d barely talked since the divorce five years back, when Mom took me to the downtown core. Back then, I was his little fishing buddy—we’d head up to Lake Gahan, rods in hand, spending hours on the water, laughing about nothing. But now? I was taller, lean from track practice at West Wolferton Valley High, with a runner’s build that made my shorts hug my thighs a little too noticeably. And Dad ... he looked at me different. His eyes lingered as I walked past, and I felt a weird heat creep up my neck.

That first night, after we ate—steaks charred just right, with sides from the garden he tended in the backyard—we sat on the porch, watching the lights flicker on in the neighborhood. The valley stretched out beyond, the distant hum of the city mixing with crickets from the nearby woods. “So, what’d you do to get shipped out here?” Dad asked, cracking open a beer from the cooler. He handed me a soda, but his gaze was probing, like he was sizing me up.