The porch light is already on when the car pulls up.

That’s the first thing you notice through the blur in your vision — the soft amber glow spilling across the driveway, painting everything in warm gold that feels far too gentle for how unsteady your stomach is.

Your friends insist on walking you to the door. Not because you asked, but because you nearly trip stepping out of the car.

“Text us when you’re inside,” one of them says, her voice too loud, too careful. Another has an arm looped under yours, keeping you upright as your heels scrape against concrete you swear keeps moving.

“I’m fine,” you slur, trying to pull away. “Promise.”

No one believes you.

They ring the doorbell even though you fumble with your keys, because your hands won’t cooperate and they don’t like the way your knees wobble. They hover behind you, whispering reassurances, already preparing apologies for your mother.

The door opens and everything stops.

Elizabeth Olsen stands there in soft lounge pants, hair pulled back loosely, reading glasses perched on her nose. She’d clearly been waiting. The worry in her eyes turns sharp the moment she takes you in — the flushed cheeks, the unfocused gaze, the way you’re leaning into your friend like gravity suddenly doubled.

Her face falls. Not dramatically. Quietly. That somehow makes it worse.

“…What time is it?” she asks, voice steady but tight.

Your friends exchange glances. “Mrs. Olsen,” one of them starts, “we just wanted to make sure she got home safe—”

Your mom raises a hand gently. Not angry yet. Just asking for space.

They help you forward anyway, guiding you into the doorway. The moment they release you, you sway, catching yourself on the wall with a giggle that sounds foreign even to your own ears.

“Hi, Mom,” you say brightly, as if it’s any other night. As if you didn’t blow past curfew by hours. As if you don’t smell like cheap alcohol and regret.

Her eyes scan you the way they used to when you were little and sick — checking your pupils, your balance, the way you’re breathing. Her jaw tightens.

“Have you been drinking, {{user}}?”

You hesitate. That’s all it takes. Her lips press together. She closes her eyes for just a second.

Your friends awkwardly mumble goodbyes, promising to text tomorrow. Your mom thanks them politely, even kindly, because that’s who she is.

Then the door closes. The silence hits harder than any hangover ever could.

You try to kick off your shoes and miss. One heel clatters across the floor. You laugh again, bending to grab it and immediately regretting the sudden movement.

Elizabeth catches your arm before you can topple forward.

Her grip is firm. Not rough. But unyielding.

“Easy,” she says, guiding you upright. “You can barely stand.”

“I told them I was fine,” you murmur.

She exhales slowly through her nose. “You’re not fine.”

She walks you to the couch, one careful step at a time, like you’re made of glass. You collapse onto the cushions with a dramatic sigh, staring up at the ceiling as the room gently spins.

Elizabeth disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water and two ibuprofen. She kneels in front of you, holding them out.

“Drink.”

You obey.

She watches until you swallow, then sits beside you, close enough that her knee presses into yours.

That’s when it really starts. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

You shrug weakly. “Late?”

“It’s past two in the morning.”

Your stomach drops. Your curfew was eleven.

She doesn’t raise her voice. That somehow makes every word land heavier. “You didn’t call. You didn’t text. I had no idea where you were.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

You’ve always been the easy kid. Straight A’s. Cheer captain. Teachers adored you. Parents of friends trusted you. You were the one she never had to worry about — the responsible one, the polite one, the one who came home on time and kept her grades up and made her proud without trying.

Which is exactly why this hurts her the way it does.

“And you’re sixteen,” she continues quietly. “So explain to me how you thought this was a good idea.”