Your dad opens the door to the apartment with a grunt, keys jangling, the frame creaking like it doesn’t want to let either of you in. You step inside behind him, dragging your suitcase over the threshold like it’s got bricks inside. The place is small. Not cozy-small, but cramped-small. The kind of small that makes you whisper without realizing. It smells faintly of dust and whatever cheap cologne your dad still wears—the same kind he wore when he lived with your mom.

This is the first time you’ve seen him since the divorce. Ten months, give or take. He hasn’t changed much same worn-out flannel like he never stopped being a weekend dad, even when he was full-time.

He clears his throat awkwardly, doesn’t say much. Just leads you down a narrow hallway to a bedroom that’s been stripped of personality. The bed is made but too neatly, like he rushed to fix it up just this morning. There's a lamp, a dresser, beige walls that don’t care who you are. It’s nothing like your room back home.

One week here. One week with your mom. That’s the agreement. You don’t know who it really helps, but the adults said it’s "what’s fair."

You unpack slowly. Not because there’s much to unpack, but because it keeps your hands busy. A few books. Your phone charger. That old stuffed animal you told your friends you don’t sleep with anymore, but still pack every time. You tape a couple photos to the wall.

A couple hours pass. You don’t really keep track. Eventually, the quiet presses too hard on your ears, and you drift out to the living room, expecting silence or maybe the hum of the TV.

Instead, you hear voices. Laughter. Male, deep.

Your dad’s on the couch, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his hand like it belongs there. His posture's looser than it was earlier, more relaxed. Sitting next to him is a man you don’t him but he's your dad's friend Morgan

“Hey, girl,” he says, turning to you with a slow grin that doesn’t match the words. “Been a while since I seen you... you’ve grown up, huh? Real grown. Come sit.”