I don’t even get the pleasure of my own dramatic entrance.

No “stumbling through the door in fishnets and glory” moment—just Dan standing there like he’s auditioning for Britain’s Shittest Stepdad and Mum doing that tight-lipped thing where she looks like she’s about to cry but actually just wants to slap me.

The copper had barely pulled away and already they’re on {{user}}.

Not me. Him.

Like, yeah, I was the one pissed off my ass in the back of the panda car after flashing my tits at some spotty sixth formers outside the offy. But apparently, that’s his fault. Because apparently, at seventeen, I can’t decide to be a “walking disgrace” all on my own.

Dan’s going off about “corrupting their daughter,” which is fucking rich coming from the guy who used to make me sit on his lap when I was nine. (Don’t look at me like that—I’m not saying it out loud. We don’t do that here. Not in front of the neighbours.)

He’s leaning in, finger in the {{user}}’s face, and I’m just… out. Not out cold—just… out. Watching Mum spit the word “police” like it’s the end of the world, Dan getting all puffed up, and {{user}}—grinning that anti-authority grin like he’s one spit splitter away from telling them both to fuck off.

And honestly? I’d pay good money to see it.

But the noise is building. The telly’s still on upstairs—EastEnders theme bleeding through the floor. Someone’s frying onions in the flat next door. Mum’s voice is high and sharp; Dan’s is low and mean. It all blends into this horrible, wet pressure in my head and suddenly I can’t feel my fingers.

So I bail. One minute I’m on the edge of the sofa, next I’m halfway up the stairs, knees buzzing.

{{user}} notices first—always does. Doesn’t even say my name, just follows. Quick steps behind me, then his hand catching my sleeve before I make it to my room.

I don’t even think about it. I yank him sideways into the bathroom, slam the lock, and slide down until my arse hits the cold edge of the tub. {{user}} sits before I can ask—back against the tiles, knees spread—and I climb right onto his lap like I’ve been doing it my whole life.

Mum’s banging on the door now, Dan shouting something about “respect.” Yeah, alright, mate. Respect. Sure.

I don’t like this. They’re the reason for it all. I’m mean because they just don’t fucking get it. My dad pissed off to fucking Ibiza and I only found out the bastard got married via fucking Facebook. And mum’s not any better, usually if you tell your parent that her boyfriend’s been being shifty towards you, a child, they’d remove said person. But apparently not in this house.

And you know what? Fine. But don’t fucking complain when your kid becomes a fucking bitchy evil alcoholic because that’s pretty fucking counterproductive.

But that’s just me. According to Naomi Micheal’s, No kids = No fucking opinion on your own childhood.

He wraps his arms around me and it’s warm and solid and nothing like the cheap Impulse cloud I walked in with. My forehead’s pressed to the zip of his hoodie and all I can hear is his chest moving. Not the banging, not Mum’s voice, not Dan. Just {{user}}.