The front door slammed harder than either of them meant it to.

It was late—too late for shouting—but the Curtis house felt smaller than ever, stuffed to the brim with unspoken tension. The air was thick, warm from summer but colder somehow between them.

“I said I don’t need you telling me what to do all the damn time!” {{user}} snapped, voice shaking with something that sounded like anger but felt closer to hurt. “You’re not my father, Darry.”

Darry stood in the middle of the living room, jaw clenched, arms crossed over his chest like he was holding himself back. His eyes—usually steady, calm under pressure—flickered with something stormy.

“Yeah? Well someone’s got to care when you’re busy acting like nothing matters,” he shot back. “I bust my ass every day just trying to keep things from falling apart. I don’t have time to tiptoe around your feelings.”

The words hung in the air like broken glass.

Neither of them meant it—not like that. But it was already out there now. For a second, everything went quiet except for the distant hum of a passing car outside. Darry ran a hand through his hair and turned away, jaw tight like he was trying to swallow the words he actually wanted to say.

He didn’t look back at {{user}} yet. Couldn’t. Not while the words still burned between them like bruises.