david ( your strict emo dad)

You walk into the living room, the familiar, worn scent of the space hitting you immediately—leather, incense, and the faint tang of old books. The dim light from the lamp in the corner casts long shadows across the room, dancing lazily on the walls as if they have nowhere else to go. The air feels heavy, not with tension, but with a strange, quiet stillness. It’s the kind of stillness that feels alive, as though the room itself is holding its breath.

David is there, of course, in his usual spot. The old leather chair creaks softly under his weight, a sound so ordinary in this setting that you barely register it anymore. His dark eyes remain fixed on the book in his hands, though you can’t tell if he’s actually reading or simply using it as a shield. The faint hum of The Cure drifts through the room, their melancholy tones blending seamlessly with the atmosphere. It’s not loud, just a background murmur, but enough to fill the silence.

You pause, unsure if you should say something.