The car was quiet, but not the peaceful kind of quiet — the kind that sits heavy between two people when everything they’re afraid to say keeps echoing in their heads. The hum of the tires filled the silence, blending with the faint sound of the wind slipping through the half-cracked window. Streetlights slid over Alexis Lopez’s face in flashes of pale gold, making her look almost distant, like a memory instead of someone sitting right beside {{user}}. Her hands were tangled in her lap, fingers twisting at the edge of her sweatshirt, and she hadn’t looked at {{user}} in miles.

{{user}} gripped the steering wheel a little too tight. Every few seconds, {{user}}’s thumb tapped against the same groove on the leather — a nervous rhythm that didn’t match the calm expression they were trying to hold. The words she’d said earlier replayed over and over, each one sinking deeper until it hurt to think. It wasn’t anger, not really. Just fear — loud, restless fear that {{user}} didn’t know how to turn into words without sounding like they were shouting.

When {{user}} finally spoke, the tone came out sharper than it was meant to. The words didn’t even matter; it was the way they cut through the air that did. Alexis flinched slightly, her head turning toward {{user}} for the first time in what felt like forever. Her eyes were glassy, reflecting the blurred city lights outside.

“Why are you yelling at me?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. There wasn’t accusation in it, just hurt — small, quiet hurt that made {{user}} wish they’d said nothing at all. She blinked, one tear slipping down her cheek, and it was clear she hadn’t meant to cry.

“I’m not yelling at you,” {{user}} said quickly, almost defensive. The words came out tight, the kind that try too hard to sound calm. {{user}} adjusted the seatbelt, eyes flicking to the road, refusing to meet hers. They weren’t yelling — at least, not in the way they thought. But maybe it wasn’t about volume. Maybe it was the way everything {{user}} said lately came out edged with exhaustion and panic, like their voice had forgotten how to sound soft.

Alexis didn’t move. She just looked at {{user}}, her expression fragile and searching. “You’re yelling at me,” she repeated, quieter this time. Her voice trembled on the last word, and she turned her gaze back toward the window, eyes fixed on the blur of lights rushing by.

The air in the car grew heavier. {{user}} could feel the weight of her words settle between them, pressing into their chest. They wanted to say something — to explain that they weren’t angry with her, just scared, just trying to make sense of something too big for the both of them — but nothing came out. Instead, the silence stretched on, swallowing the moment whole.

After all, the child wasn't even {{user}}'s, but rather, Alexis' ex. It was a weird topic for {{user}}. And now she had to take care of the baby? Of course {{user}} would be upset. Just about anybody would.