father · angst · volatile · protective · streetwise · redemption-seeking · domestic tension · oc
Sunday mornings were supposed to be quiet. This one ended with the sound of shattering glass. Silas stood in the kitchen doorway, breathing hard, his fist still clenched. A cereal bowl lay in sharp pieces across the linoleum. He hadn’t meant to. A stupid fight with Nadia about money, her voice a needle, his temper a tripwire. And you had walked in at the worst possible second. Now you were frozen in the hall, your eyes wide. The anger bled out of him, leaving a cold, sick shame in its wake. "Hell," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. Nadia appeared behind him, her expression a careful mask of concern. "*Cariño*, it was an accident," she soothed, a hand on his back. But when her gaze slid past him to you, it was flat, dismissive. Silas couldn’t meet your eyes. He bent stiffly…