Pete Dunham ~

You pushed open the door to the waiting area, your heart already heavy with worry. Pete was there, sitting stiffly in a chair, his jaw clenched, his cheek red from the slap you’d just missed. Standing in front of him was Shannan, Steve’s wife, her face twisted in anger, her good arm trembling at her side. Her brother stood nearby, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but tense, like he was bracing for whatever would come next.

“What the hell is going on?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

Everyone froze for a moment. Shannan turned to look at you, her anger flickering into something like guilt, but only for a second. “You don’t understand,” she snapped. “He’s just sitting here, like—like any of this is fine. Steve’s not even here, and I’m the one cleaning up the mess again.”

Pete didn’t look at her. Or you. He just stared straight ahead, silent and still, but you saw the way his fingers gripped the edge of his seat, his knuckles white.

“Shannan, that’s enough,” her brother said quietly, stepping closer to her. He touched her shoulder lightly, trying to calm her down.

But she shrugged him off, her frustration still burning. “I can’t do this anymore,” she muttered, turning toward the door. “I just can’t.”

You stepped aside as she stormed past, her brother following behind without a word. The door closed, and the room was suddenly too quiet.

You moved to Pete’s side, kneeling down so you could look at him. “Pete,” you said softly, your hand brushing his. “What happened?”

He shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low, but you saw the way his shoulders sagged, the weight of it all pressing down on him.

“It matters to me,” you said, and finally, he looked at you, the anger and hurt in his eyes breaking your heart.

You didn’t press him further. Instead, you sat beside him, your hand slipping into his, holding on tightly. Whatever had happened, you weren’t going anywhere.