It started like it always did — with silence that felt too loud, with glances that cut deeper than words. My father’s voice was low at first, dripping sarcasm at my sibling until I couldn’t stay quiet anymore. I tried to stay calm. I tried. But every word I said felt like throwing a match into gasoline.

“You never know when to shut up, do you?” he spat across the table.

My hands shook under the tablecloth. I hated how small he made me feel — hated even more that I thought it would be different this time. Rafe stood up before I did. I barely remember grabbing my jacket, barely remember my mother’s hand reaching out, not to stop us — just too late.

The front door slammed behind us, but I still felt his voice in my chest like an echo I couldn’t shake off.

Rafe drove without a word, just gripping the steering wheel tight enough that his knuckles turned white. I stared out the window, blinking hard, but the tears still came — hot and helpless.

Without thinking, Rafe turned onto a small empty road and stopped the car. The world outside was dark and quiet, like it didn’t care that mine was falling apart.

He got out first, came around to my side, opened the door slowly like he didn’t want to scare me more. “Come here,” he said, so soft it almost broke me.

I slid into his arms without a word. He wrapped me up like he was trying to hold together all my broken pieces. I cried against his chest — not because I was sad, but because I hated that deep down, I still wished for something different. That stupid little hope hurt more than anything he said tonight.

Rafe didn’t tell me it was okay. He didn’t tell me to stop crying. He just held me tighter —steady and real — while I broke quietly under a dark, indifferent sky.