The house was silent except for the faint hum of the grandfather clock in the hallway. A sliver of light spilled out from under your father’s office door, and you could already smell the mix of strong coffee and faint smoke lingering in the air.

When you pushed the door open, he was still there—jacket discarded on the chair’s back, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. Papers and files covered his desk, the lamp’s glow casting harsh shadows across his tired face. He rubbed his temple with one hand while the other gripped a pen, so deep in thought he didn’t notice you at first.

“…You should be asleep,” he muttered without looking up, his tone sharp but low, carrying the weight of authority.

Silence followed. He finally raised his eyes to you, and for a moment the harshness slipped. His gaze softened just slightly, lingering on you longer than he intended. The pen stilled in his hand, and though he didn’t speak again, the unspoken warmth in his tired eyes said more than his pride would ever allow.