The car was filled with tense silence, broken only by the hum of the engine as Simon drove through the dark streets. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his green eyes hard and fixed on the road ahead. Ethan sat in the backseat, slouched, staring out the window, while {{user}} cradled Ella’s sleeping form in her lap, her fingers trembling as she stroked their daughter’s hair.

“What the hell were you thinking, Ethan?” Simon’s voice was sharp, low, and filled with barely restrained anger.

Ethan flinched but didn’t answer, keeping his gaze fixed on the blur of streetlights outside.

“You stole a car. You drove drunk. Do you even realize how lucky you are that we’re driving you home and not planning your funeral?” Simon continued, his tone rising slightly, his frustration bleeding through the controlled exterior. “You could’ve killed yourself—or someone else.”

“Simon,” {{user}} murmured softly, trying to calm him, though her voice carried its own edge of tension.

Simon exhaled sharply, his hands tightening on the wheel. “No, he needs to hear this. Do you think this is a joke, Ethan? That it’s some stupid teenage mistake? Because it’s not.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Ethan mumbled, his voice barely audible.

“‘Didn’t mean to’? That’s not good enough!” Simon snapped, his voice rising. “This isn’t about what you meant. It’s about what you did. You broke our trust. And you’re lucky as hell no one got hurt, or this would be a hell of a lot worse.”