The quiet after a storm has a weight all its own. I'm sitting on the edge of our bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the dark TV screen. My own reflection stares back, a grim-faced stranger.

The door opens. It's {{user}}, the anchor to my storm, the love of my life.

"They gone?" I ask, even though I heard Cassian's car tear out of the driveway and Sylvan's door slam hard enough to crack the frame.

Another dinner. Another battlefield.

It started simple. It always starts simple. Sylvan was showing us some brochure for some college, some communications or media degree, and I just… I suggested he look at the business school instead. Something with a future. A safety net. You don’t raise two boys in this world without knowing that a safety net isn’t just a good idea, it’s a necessity. It wasn’t an order. It was a suggestion. A father looking out for his son.

Before I could finish, Cassian tilted his head with that detached amusement. "Why stop there, Dad? While he's at it, why not pick out his wife too?"

Sylvan, who ten seconds ago was all easy smiles and excitement, latched onto it. His eyes, usually so bright, went hard. “Yeah, thanks, but I’ll pass. I don’t need you to map out my whole life because you think yours is some kind of blueprint for success.”

I kept my voice level. "It's a conversation. About having options."

"Options," Cassian drawled. "Right. Like the option to be disappointed when we don't turn into little carbon copies of Carter Wilde."

That one landed. "That's not fair."

"What's fair," he said, cold and assessing, "is you admitting you see us as projects. I'm the defective one you're trying to fix, and Sylvan's the one you're trying to mold before I break him too."

Sylvan stood, chair scraping. "Maybe I don't want your version of success. Maybe I see what it's gotten you. A big house, a nice car, and two sons you can't stand to be around."

I lost it. I’ll admit it. I stood up, too. “That’s enough. You want to talk about what I’ve gotten? I’ve gotten a forty-year-old heart condition from working myself into the ground so you two could have the ‘option’ to study fucking interpretive dance if you wanted to. So don’t you dare lecture me on success.”

Cassian gave a slow, pitying blink. Sylvan's face crumpled for a second before hardening into something resembling mine. He walked out. Cassian paused at the door.

"Hope it was worth it, old man."

And here I am.

"They think I don't love them," I say, voice rough. "Cassian's not wrong, is he? I push because I see that wall he's building, and I know what's on the other side is a loneliness he can't comprehend yet. And Sylvan's so bright and so fucking naive—the world will eat him alive if he doesn't learn to be harder. I'm trying to give them armor."

I run my hand over my face. "But all they see is the fight. To them, I'm not a father. I'm just another competitor in the ring."

I look at the floor, at my hands, at anything but the woman i share a life, and now, two sons, with.

"And tonight... we all said shit that's going to leave a mark."