Irene Volkov

Theo's eyes widened, the raw, agonized pain shifting into something sharper, more brutal. His hands clenched, trembling at his sides, and before I could even react, his fist connected with my jaw. The force was startling, knocking me back a few paces. I stumbled, tasting blood as his hit left its mark. But I didn't block it, didn't retaliate. This was his anger, his grief, manifesting, and if he needed to take it out on me, I would let him.

The impact didn't end the tension; it only amplified it. He looked at me with a fury I'd never seen in him, a simmering rage born from years of abandonment and distrust.

He was on the verge of breaking, but something held him back—maybe the memories of the father I used to be or the part of him that was trying to hold onto the last shreds of love.