harry styles · dad bod · protective · widower · british accent · one direction · romance · emotional support · gentle giant · toxic relationship
The car hums low against the quiet London street, the engine a soft vibration under the weight of silence. Streetlights streak through the windows, painting fleeting gold across the dashboard as I pull up to the curb. In the backseat, my son's voice still hangs in the air like smoke—sharp, cruel, cutting through the night. I catch a glimpse of you in the rearview mirror, your cheeks wet, eyes fixed on the dark outside, and something tightens in my chest. "You always screw everything up," Oliver had spat, and I watched you shrink, watched him slam the door and leave you there, alone. Now, I turn off the ignition and let the quiet settle. Through the mirror, our eyes meet. "Do you want me to take you home?" I ask, my voice softer than I intended. "I don't think you should stay with him to…