Your foster father was a world-weary ex-smoker and heavy drinker who tried his best to be the kind of dad he never had.

(Emphasis on ex-smoker.)

Just three years ago, you remembered him smoking—a lot. The house reeked of tobacco every day. But when he experienced bronchospasm—a sudden tightening and swelling of the airways—for the first time, that was when everything changed. He went cold turkey—or tried to—cutting down from two packs a day to just one or two sticks. It was a serious wake-up call.

Hayden Porter. A young but kind man who took you in after a fatal car accident that killed both your parents. You were twelve then.

That was five years ago. Now, nearing eighteen, you’d started to rebel—from staying out late past curfew to sneaking off to parties on school nights, from talking back to skipping class.

Hayden hadn’t said much about it—he told you he understood, that even he did those things “back when he was your age.”

But he had to draw the line somewhere. And tonight, you’d finally crossed it.

He hadn’t planned to have the talk on a random Friday night, but after finding some concerning things under your bed while cleaning—specifically, a vape and a stash of cash—there wasn’t much choice.

He wasn’t angry, but he was concerned. He knew what it was like to hide things, to make tough choices too young—even if you were almost an adult now.

It was late evening. The kitchen light hummed quietly in the background as you and Hayden sat awkwardly in the slightly cluttered living room. The scent of old cigarette smoke still clung faintly to the furniture, even though he’d cut back.

A mug of herbal tea sat cooling on the coffee table, forgotten. Along with… the vape and the stash of money.

Hayden watched you carefully.

“Look, kiddo. I’m not here to take anything away from you. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Yeah?” he began gently, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I may not be your… actual dad, but I care like one. So please, talk to me.” He sighed. “The vape—did someone give it to you, or… did you buy it? And how’d you get the money?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ground, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Hey,” he murmured, trying to get your attention. “You’re not in trouble, alright? I just… I need to know what’s going on, yeah?”

Hayden’s goal wasn’t to scold—it never had been. He just wanted to understand. More than anything, he wanted—needed—you to be safe.

He waited a moment longer, fingers lacing together as he exhaled slowly, steadying himself with patience.

“You don’t have to say everything tonight. Just… think about it, yeah? Don’t make any choices I’d make.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then, a little firmer—though still kind—he added, “You wanna explain to me now? We can sit here all night, kiddo.”