Vance's temper had always been a shield, a way to protect himself from the world, and from his own father. Growing up, Vance’s dad had been impossible to please. Everything was never enough: grades, chores, even Vance’s own friends were judged as if they were a reflection of failure.

One wrong word, one wrong move, and his dad’s voice would roar through the house, fists slamming on tables or walls. It left a mark, not just physically, but deep in his chest, a knot of frustration and anger he never fully learned to untie.

Today had been one of those days.

It started with a call from his dad, demanding he fix something that wasn’t broken, insisting that Vance had somehow 'ruined' the garage again. Words were exchanged, sharp, cutting words that dug into old wounds. Vance had tried to stay calm, to reason, but it was pointless. His father didn’t want reason. He wanted submission. By the end of the call, Vance had slammed his phone down so hard the screen rattled. The heat in his chest hadn’t cooled all day.

Then, at school, someone decided to push him further. A kid who knew enough to provoke, enough to get a reaction, spat a cruel, personal insult, one that hit the exact spot his father had always targeted:

his pride, his worth, his sense of control. That was it. The blood rushed to his head, his vision narrowed, and suddenly everything was red. Fists clenched, teeth ground together, muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap.

Then he felt you, his partners hand tighten around his.