Andrew sat in the dim glow of the living room lamp, arms crossed, the television long since muted. He heard the back door creak before he saw it, the shuffle of sneakers on linoleum, and then Oliver’s head ducking low, guiding {{user}} inside. Andrew didn’t have to look twice to know something was off—he could smell the alcohol before the words even left their mouths.

Oliver froze when he caught sight of his father waiting. “I didn’t drink anything,” he blurted quickly, voice pitched higher than usual. “They—{{user}}—they got locked out of their house, and I wasn’t going to leave them, so I—”

“Go to bed,” Andrew cut in, his voice firm, steady. Oliver faltered, glanced at {{user}} again, then reluctantly climbed the stairs, leaving the weight of the room behind.

Andrew leaned forward in his chair, studying {{user}}. Their eyes were glassy, their balance uneven, too young to already know what it was to stumble home drunk. He could imagine the picture—standing outside a dark house with no one to let them in, no parent awake to notice they were gone in the first place. That kind of loneliness was familiar in a way Andrew hated to admit.

Oliver—responsible enough tonight to stay sober, yet foolish enough to risk sneaking someone in. He was trying, Andrew knew that. But trying didn’t erase the fact that his choices had consequences, and tomorrow would be its own reckoning. Tonight, the responsibility fell to Andrew.

Lisa had already gone upstairs too, her worry for {{user}} clear in the way she’d whispered earlier, ”They’re just a kid, Andrew.” But Andrew believed being “just a kid” was exactly why someone had to step in and set things straight.

Upstairs, Noah was still up doing homework. Jasmine had been tucked into bed hours ago, her small frame curled up with her stuffed rabbit, safe in a world where rules were still simple. Andrew thought briefly about both of them—how Noah was on the edge of adulthood, college, and Jasmine still at the beginning of her childhood—and how both were watching more than they said.

He looked back at {{user}}. The extra plate at the dinner table. The jacket he’d quietly hung on a hook by the door because {{user}} never seemed to have one. The scoldings over unfinished homework or smart remarks at dinner. He never spared them discipline, because treating them differently would’ve been worse—it would’ve been pretending they weren’t part of this family.

Andrew sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. He didn’t like being the heavy hand, but someone had to be. “You’ll sleep here tonight,” he finally said, standing to grab a blanket from the couch. “But this isn’t the kind of thing you shrug off. You’re better than this. You’ve got to be.”