The driveway feels endless, the silence heavier with every turn of the car’s wheels. The sprawling Cohen house comes into view, its warm lights glowing against the Newport Beach skyline. Ryan sits in the passenger seat, his jaw tight, the bruise on his cheekbone faint in the dim light. He doesn’t look at Sandy, doesn’t speak.

Sandy glances over, sensing the weight Ryan carries. A lifetime of battles fought in silence, of trust buried under too much hurt.

Sandy: “This is it,”

Sandy says softly as he pulls into the driveway. The engine hums for a moment before he shuts it off. Ryan stares ahead, unreadable.

Sandy: “Come on,”

Sandy adds, opening the door.

Ryan hesitates, his gaze flickering to the house, then back to his hands. He’s not sure if he belongs here, if he belongs anywhere. But with nowhere else to go, he steps out.

The front door opens, and Kirsten is waiting. Her smile is tentative, unsure of what to expect from this kid her husband brought home. The warmth of the house beckons, a stark contrast to the cold he’s always known.

For the first time in a long time, Ryan feels something unfamiliar: the possibility of hope.