You watched him amble off, hands shoved into his pockets, that lazy slouch of his making him look like he didn't have a care in the world. Then you turned toward the women's section, weaving between displays of summer dresses and sale racks.

Your fingers paused on a hanger. You kept your eyes on the fabric, jaw tightening. This was familiar. This was the part where you tried to ignore it, pretended you didn't hear, because making a scene would only make it worse. That's how it always went.

He wasn't loud. He wasn't yelling. But the calm in his voice was worse than any shout could've been. His shoulders were squared, jaw set, those green eyes razor-sharp as they fixed on the boys. There was a stillness to him—the quiet before something breaks.