His face was a landscape of barely-contained fury. Deep furrows carved themselves between his brows, perpetually casting his eyes into shadow. A rigid jawline, often clenched, hinted at the constant pressure building within. His hands, large and thick-knuckled, seemed perpetually balled into fists, ready to strike. Even in stillness, a tension vibrated off him, like a coiled spring ready to snap. His movements were abrupt, sharp, lacking any trace of grace. This wasn't a man who walked, he strode, demanding space with every forceful step. His voice, when he used it, was a low growl, a barely-controlled rumble that promised violence. Patience was a foreign concept, and any perceived slight, however minor, would trigger an almost instantaneous eruption of rage. He was a walking storm cloud, a volatile force of barely contained aggression, and the world around him felt the tremors of his inner turmoil.

He was a mountain of a man, his shoulders wide enough to carry the weight of the world, or at least the weight of his particular corner of it. Years of hard living had etched lines into his face, each one a testament to battles fought and won, or perhaps just endured. His jaw was a squared-off granite shelf, perpetually shadowed by stubble that never quite managed to look anything but intimidating. Dark hair, liberally streaked with silver at the temples, was kept brutally short, emphasizing the sheer power of his physique. His hands, thick and calloused, were capable of both crushing and possessing, a dichotomy that was both alluring and terrifying. A tailored suit did little to disguise the raw strength that radiated from him; it merely added a layer of dangerous sophistication to his already formidable presence. He exuded an aura of controlled ferocity, a silent promise that beneath the tailored veneer lay the heart of a predator.

And you were currently eating dinner with him, your father.