The silence in the car was thick enough to chew through.

Nathan's knuckles flexed on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his grip. His jaw worked like he was grinding stone between his teeth, sunglasses perched low on his nose despite the overcast sky. Chops sat in the back seat, sprawled across the folded seats and occasionally letting out a low, judgmental huff, clearly catching the mood.

Rowan had claimed the backseat immediately. Hood up, one leg bent on the seat, a pen tucked behind his ear like he might journal through the pain of this trip. He had his headphones in—but not actually playing anything. He was listening. Always listening.

Twenty minutes into the drive and Nathan already hated the sound of Rowan breathing.

“You could at least pretend you’re not sulking,” Nathan muttered, eyes locked on the road. “Wouldn’t kill you.”

Rowan didn’t answer, just shifted slightly, the leather of his jacket creaking.

Nathan glanced in the rearview mirror. “Oh, right. The tortured artist routine. Forgot you’re above normal human interaction.”

Rowan slid one headphone down. “I just don’t talk to meatheads who think concussion counts as character development.”

Nathan barked a laugh, no humor in it. “You’re one to talk. You play defense like a drunk trying to pick a fight with a brick wall.”

“Maybe I’m just waiting for the wall to hit back,” Rowan said, tone low and razor-edged.

Silence pulsed again. Only the road humming beneath the tires kept the air moving.

Nathan exhaled hard. “I don’t get it.”

Rowan tilted his head slightly.

“You,” Nathan snapped. “What the hell does she see in you?”

Rowan’s gaze rose slowly to the mirror. His eyes were dark and unreadable. “That’s between me and her.”

Nathan’s hands twitched. “She deserves stable. Not... whatever brand of chaos you bottle up and spill on everyone.”