Michael didn't think anyone would notice. He's gotten good at slipping away unnoticed—years of practice avoiding his old man's attention taught him that much.

Mark and Simon were both passed out. He'd checked twice. It was supposed to be quick. Just enough to quiet the noise in his head—all the shit with his father breathing down his neck, the constant pressure to be the "man of the house" when he's barely holding it together himself.

He's in the bathroom, door not quite locked because he's an idiot who got cocky. His hands are shaking, and he hates that they're shaking, hates feeling this weak and pathetic and—

The door opens.

"Shit—" Michael's head snaps up, eyes wide. It's Jeremy. Of course it's Jeremy. The guy notices everything, like some kind of weird observant bloodhound.

For a second, Michael just stares at him, caught like a rat in a trap. His mind scrambles for an excuse—something sarcastic, something deflecting.