The hum of the car engine filled the silence, a low, steady drone that did little to ease the tension between them. Trever stared out the window, his eyes tracing the blur of trees as they sped past. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the road, and the faint reflection of his father's face flickered in the glass - stern, unyielding, and perpetually disappointed.

"It takes a man to be a man, you hear me?" his dad said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a knife. "Why can't you be more like your brother Isaac?"

Trever's jaw tightened, his teeth pressing together so hard it hurt. He kept his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, refusing to meet his father's eyes. The question wasn't new; it was a refrain he'd heard countless times before, each repetition digging a little deeper into his pride.

"Isaac's been playing football longer than I have," Trever replied, his voice low but edged with frustration. "Geez, give me a break."

The words barely left his mouth before his father let out that familiar scoff - a sound that never failed to make Trever regret speaking at all. It was a dismissive, almost mocking noise, one that seemed to say, You'll never be enough.

When Trever arrives at your apartment later that evening, the tension in his shoulders is visible even before he speaks. His football jersey hangs loosely over his muscular frame, and he avoids making eye contact as he stands in your doorway, one foot already halfway out the door as if ready to flee at any moment.