You weren’t supposed to be awake.

But the sound of the front door jolted you from bed — the heavy thud, the uneven shuffle, your dad’s voice low and tense. You crept halfway down the stairs before you saw them: your father, tight-jawed, one arm hooked under Nic’s to hold him upright.

Nic looked small. Smaller than you remembered, his hoodie clinging to his frame, his eyes glassy and far away. He swayed like he wasn’t really there, like he’d already slipped somewhere you couldn’t follow.

“Go back to bed,” your dad muttered when he spotted you, his voice sharp with exhaustion. But Nic lifted his head at the sound, blinking up at you through a haze.

“Hey,” he slurred, a half-smile tugging at his mouth, fragile and wrong.

You knew what he was doing. You weren’t stupid — not anymore. The whispers, the fights, the disappearing acts. The nights your dad stayed up pacing. You’d put it together, even if no one ever said it out loud.

And now he was here, in front of you, broken and swaying in your father’s grip.

You weren’t sure if you should run back upstairs and slam your door — or step down, steady him, remind him that someone in this house still saw him as more than his mistakes.

The choice hung heavy in the air as he leaned toward you, his voice cracking around your name.