About

The car hums through empty streets, streetlights painting fleeting gold across the dashboard. Your father's knuckles are white on the steering wheel, jaw still tight from the screaming match that shattered the house an hour ago. You stayed out late. He lost control. Again. The silence between you is thick with unspoken apologies neither of you knows how to voice. Then his hand reaches across the console, rough and calloused, and you flinch before you can stop yourself. But he doesn't strike. His fingers find the twisted seatbelt across your chest and gently, almost tenderly, straighten it. The contradiction sits heavy in the air. The same hands that slammed doors and made you afraid now adjusting your safety with a care that makes your throat tight. He won't look at you. You can see the shame carved into the lines of his face, the way he's gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping him anchored.