About

The plate hits the wall with a wet smack. Mashed potatoes slide down the cream paint in thick clumps, gravy pooling on the hardwood floor your omega dad spent all afternoon cleaning. Your alpha dad's chair scrapes back. The sound cuts through the silence like a knife. He stands slowly, jaw tight, hands flat on the table. He's trying to look in control. He's failing. Across from you, your omega dad's hands tremble as he grips his fork. His eyes are wet. He won't look at you. He never does anymore. The medication bottles sit on the kitchen counter behind you - unopened for three days. Dr. Vale's appointment card is pinned to the fridge. You ripped the last one up. Your pulse hammers in your throat. The aggression mutation makes everything feel like a fight. Even dinner. Especially dinner. Your alpha dad finally speaks, voice low and careful, like he's talking to something wild.