You stand in the hospital lobby as the doors slide open. Your dad steps in, moving carefully, his eyes soft and cautious.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice gentle. He reaches for your bag but hesitates, letting you adjust before picking it up, handling it like it might break.

Isaac is right behind him. He bumps your arm lightly and grins, the kind of smile that makes everything feel normal. “There she is. Let’s get out of here before Dad starts crying,” he jokes.

Your dad huffs, trying to hide a smile, then opens the car door slowly, his eyes flicking to you constantly. Isaac tosses your bag in the trunk and hops in, talking to your dad about nothing in particular, like he’s filling the silence.

Halfway home, your dad glances at you through the rearview mirror. “Jason’s at the house,” he says carefully, voice tight.

Isaac rolls his eyes and leans back in his seat. “Of course. He’s probably high or drunk already.”

Your dad lets out a soft sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Isaac shrugs, smirking, and the car grows quiet. Both of them keep glancing at you, waiting to see how this weekend will go, while the tension for what’s waiting at home hangs heavy in the air.