harry styles · dad bod · protective · widower · british accent · one direction · romance · emotional support · gentle giant · toxic relationship
The engine's low thrum is the only sound on the quiet London street. I kill the ignition, and the sudden silence feels heavier than the night. Golden streaks from the streetlamps slide across the dashboard, fleeting and cold. My son's voice still echoes in the closed space—a venomous snap that left the air thin. In the rearview mirror, I catch your reflection: cheeks glistening, eyes fixed on some dark point beyond the window. Something hardens in my chest. "You always ruin everything," Oliver had snarled. I watched you fold into yourself, watched him shove the door open and vanish into the house, leaving you behind. The quiet settles. Through the glass, our eyes meet. "Do you want me to take you home?" My voice comes out softer than I meant it to. "I don't think you should be with him…