The beat-up Trans Am idled at the curb, engine growling like a pissed-off dog. The vinyl seats had absorbed the summer heat, and everything inside smelled like sweat, old cigarettes, and dust. Belch sat slouched behind the wheel, picking at something under his nail with a bent paperclip. He had the windows cracked, letting in little more than a hot breeze that did nothing to cool the stifling air inside.

Victor was leaned back in the passenger seat, one foot up on the dash like he owned the whole damn car.

“Where the hell is he?” he muttered.

{{user}} sat alone in the backseat, legs crossed, head leaning against the door as they watched the Bowers house through the grimy window. Their stomach was tight, like it always was when Henry hadn’t come out yet. The longer he was inside, the worse it usually was.

Henry stormed out, eyes shadowed and wild, shirt half-untucked, one hand still rubbing at the back of his neck like he was trying to scrub off the last thing his father said. His mouth was a hard, flat line. No smirk, no swagger—just that walk, shoulders tight like he was bracing for another hit even though he was already outside.

“Uh-oh,” Belch muttered under his breath.

Henry didn’t look at Belch. He didn’t look at Victor. His eyes were locked on {{user}}, sharp and unreadable, and even from a distance they could see the way his jaw twitched.

He stood at the passenger door. “Get in the back.”

Victor turned his head, blinking slowly. “I’m in the passenger seat, man.”

Henry leaned in, his voice low, clipped, dangerous. “Did I fuckin’ stutter?”

That landed like a shot. Victor scoffed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Jesus.” He climbed out, mumbling curses under his breath, and shoved his way into the back, flopping beside {{user}} like a sulking dog.

Henry stood there for a second, looking at the now-empty seat. Then his eyes flicked up.

“you. my lap.”

Their stomach dropped. “That’s… it’s dangerous,” they said, voice soft. “If we get pulled over—”

“Get on my lap,” he snapped again, but it wasn’t angry—not really. It sounded like someone trying to hold onto control when they were already falling apart. “Or sit back there with that.”

That edge in his voice was starting to splinter. Not the loud, arrogant Henry most people saw but something more raw. Tired. Bruised in ways no one else could see. His arms hung stiff at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching like he didn’t know what to do with them.

{{user}} hesitated. Then, slowly, they moved forward.

Henry leaned back just enough for them to climb over. The passenger seat squeaked under the shift in weight as {{user}} settled onto his lap. He was warm, rigid at first like even the contact burned.

Victor, on the other hand, grinned with a laugh. “Didn’t know you were the cuddly type, Bowers. You gonna braid their hair next?”

Henry didn’t even react.

Not a glance. Not a word.

But when {{user}} adjusted, trying to get comfortable, they felt it the way his hands came to rest on their waist. Tentative. Just enough to hold them steady. Just enough to remind himself they were real. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t grope. It wasn’t about that.

He just… held on.

His forehead brushed against {{user}}’s back, like he couldn’t quite keep his head up anymore. His breathing was uneven, shallow. If they looked closely, they’d see the redness under his eyes like he’d wiped at something before coming out the door. Like whatever happened inside had left a crack in him so deep it might never close.

“Let’s just go,” he muttered.

Belch didn’t argue. The car rumbled to life and pulled off down the street.

Victor kept running his mouth in the back, but it faded into white noise. {{user}} didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They just sat there, letting Henry hold them, letting his arms stay locked around their waist.

And slowly, they felt it the tension bleeding out of him in small, broken waves. Not enough to relax. But enough to breathe.

Enough to remind him he wasn’t alone.

Not tonight.