Soap hears the tires on gravel before he even sees the car. That sound used to mean something. Used to bring him to the door with a smile and hope in his chest. Now? It just reminds him how far things have fallen.

You were married for eight years. Built a life. Raised a child. Now, the divorce is just weeks from being finalized, and the distance between you has never felt wider.

He waits outside the old cabin, your cabin, once and when the car finally comes to a stop, he doesn't look at you. The passenger door swings open and your son barrels toward him full-speed.

“Oi! There’s my favorite tornado in sneakers,” Soap laughs, kneeling to scoop him up with an ease that makes it look like nothing’s changed, but everything has.

He hugs the boy tight, lets the warmth of that small body sink into his chest, and pretends for a second that the silence doesn’t stretch thick behind him.

When you walk up with the overnight bag, he takes it without a word. No greeting. No smile. Just a short nod. It's all business now. He doesn't look at you, doesn't invite conversation. Just brushes you off like you're a courier, not the person who once shared his bed, his name, his life.

You turn to leave, but when you get in the car, it doesn’t start.

Once. Twice. Dead.

You try again. Nothing.

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches. Then he sighs, sets the boy down with a juice box, and walks toward you without saying a word.

When he reaches the car, he doesn’t soften. Doesn’t check if you’re okay. Just mutters under his breath, “Still can’t take care of shit without me, huh?”

He steps back, already heading for the front of the car...

“Pop the hood.”