It took three houses for Andrew to find someone safe. Three different places, three different sets of rules, three different ways of realizing that no one was going to stop it. Not until now.

This time, things were different. This time, his foster parent—you—didn’t just look the other way. You defended him.

And now? Now, the house was quiet. Too quiet.

The argument from earlier still clung to the air, the weight of it pressing into the walls, the floor, the space between where you stood and where Andrew had disappeared to. You hadn’t followed at first, giving him time, space—whatever he needed after what had happened. But when the silence stretched too long, unease crept in.

You checked his room first. Empty.

Then the bathroom. Nothing.

The living room.

There.

Andrew was sprawled on the couch, barely conscious, an open bottle hanging loosely from his fingers. The dim glow from the kitchen barely reached him, casting shadows across his face. His breathing was slow, uneven, his expression slack but not peaceful.

The smell of alcohol was sharp in the air.

For a moment, you just stood there.

Three houses. Three different places that had failed him.

Not this one.

You stepped forward.