West had adjusted his grip casually. "Yeah."
There was no strain on his face or tremors in his arms.
Mark chalked it up to adrenaline. Or youth. Or maybe the stress of the last few days doing strange things to perception.
But then it happened again.
And again.
A dining table box that clearly required two people—West took one end and still seed to be doing most of the work. A refrigerator component that Mark struggled to even tilt—West carried it without complaint.
"You’ve... been working out?" Mark asked at one point, half joking, half confused.
West smiled. "A bit."
Mark laughed weakly and shook his head. "Kids these days."
They continued.
By the ti they reached the stairwell again with their largest load yet, Mark’s legs were burning. Sweat dripped from his temple as he adjusted his grip around a massive box filled with shelving parts.
Halfway up the flight, his foot slipped by just a fraction where the sole of his shoe failed to find traction.
The box tipped backwards and montum pulled it away from his grasp.
Mark’s heart skipped violently as he instinctively reached out—
"West—!"
It was too late... the box fell straight toward West.
West was behind him, already holding another massive box against his chest.
Mark’s mind scread.
’It’s too heavy... he’ll get crushed.’
But what happened next made ti feel like it warped.
West suddenly moved the box he was carrying to one hand and reached out with the other.
The falling box landed squarely on his open palm and it was stopped instantly.
West stood there with his arms slightly bent, holding two enormous boxes like it was nothing more than an inconvenience.
The stairwell fell silent.
Mark stared.
His mouth opened, then closed.
"How—" he began.
West smiled, almost sheepishly. "Guess I caught it just in ti."
Mark’s breath ca out in a rush. "That box alone must weigh—"
"I’ve really been working out," West said again, widening his smile just a bit.
Mark laughed but it was strained and uneasy.
Because sothing about that mont didn’t sit right in his chest.
Still, he didn’t press.
They finished the job soon after.
Boxes stacked neatly. Furniture assembled. Appliances plugged in. The apartnt slowly transford from an empty, echoing space into sothing that actually looked like a ho.
By the ti the last piece was set in place, Mark sank down onto a chair with his elbows on his knees, breathing hard.
West stood nearby, barely winded.
Mark looked up at him and realized that his son wasn’t a kid anymore.
Sowhere between long work hours, missed dinners, and years slipping by unnoticed, West had changed. His shoulders were broader. His posture steadier. His eyes... sharper.
Mark swallowed.
"West," he said.
West paused mid-step. "Yeah?"
Mark hesitated.
Then he stood, walked over, and rested a hand on the counter... steadying himself more than anything.
"I know I haven’t been... present."
West didn’t respond.
"I know I say that a lot," Mark continued with a low tone. "And I know it doesn’t an much when it cos this late."
Still silence~
"I can’t keep using work as an excuse. Work is never an excuse to not be there for your son."
West turned slowly.
Mark’s face drooped. "When your mother and I separated... I should’ve been there more. For you. Not just financially—emotionally."
His voice wavered.
"I know that took a toll on you. It took one on too. And instead of dealing with it, I buried myself in work like a coward."
West’s gaze softened but only slightly.
"I’m sorry," Mark said. "I’m sorry you grew up feeling like you were on your own. I’m sorry I wasn’t the father you needed."
Silence stretched as West stared at the wall behind him.
He was eighteen now...
His parents had been separated for nearly five years.
For a long ti, he had waited.
For calls that didn’t co.
For weekends that were always postponed.
For promises that quietly dissolved into excuses.
Eventually, he stopped expecting anything.
But he wasn’t blind.
He understood, in his own way, that the separation had broken his father. That Mark’s silence wasn’t indifference... it was grief poorly handled. That burying himself in work was how Mark survived.
By the ti Mark realized how much ti had passed and that he needed to be there for his son, he was already trapped.
Promotions stacked. Responsibilities multiplied. He got a position so demanding that stepping back even slightly risked collapse.
And if he lost that job... who would provide for his son? The mother that was never there?
That was the irony.
West had gotten a job at Ash and Crè not just for himself, but to show his father that he didn’t have to carry everything alone.
That West could stand on his own.
But even then, Mark barely reacted.
Now—
Now that West had nearly died—
Everything changed.
"If you’d died..." Mark eyes glistened as he voiced out. "What would any of it have been for?"
West opened his mouth slightly but shut it back, choosing not to say anything.
"I put in a letter at work," Mark continued. "I demanded a couple days off every week. And a vacation week every three months."
West’s eyes suddenly widened. "What?"
"If they refuse," Mark said firmly, "I’ll resign."
West blinked. "Dad—"
"I need to be there for you," Mark said. "Properly. From now on."
West’s expression soured instantly.
"Um," he said awkwardly while rubbing the back of his neck, "there’s really no need for that."
Mark frowned. "What?"
"I an—" West searched for words. "I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to rearrange your whole life."
Mark shook his head. "I do."
West internally scread.
You absolutely do not.
Because while Mark was talking about bonding, shared als, and presence—
West was thinking about sothing else entirely.
About how his life was about to get very complicated.
About secrets.
About awakenings.
About power.
About girls.
And most importantly—
About how much harder it will get to have girls around if his dad was suddenly around all the ti.
West forced a smile. "We’ll... talk about it."
Mark smiled back, relieved.
West sighed inwardly.
’This is going to be a problem.’
User Comments
0 comments from readers