Elena's POV
The drive to my father's house felt longer than it ever had, even though the roads were familiar. Every traffic light lingered. Every turn carried weight. The city thinned out as we moved farther from the center, buildings giving way to quieter streets, older houses with peeling paint and histories that sat heavy behind their doors.
Justin kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting over mine, warm and grounding. He didn't speak much, and neither did I. There are silences that feel empty, and then there are silences that are full of things too fragile to rush. This was the second kind.
My father.
The word itself felt complicated in my mouth.
