He never thought this is how the night would go.

Holed up in his house with Trevor on one end of the couch, ranting, and them in the middle, caught like a kid between divorced parents who never stopped fighting.

Trevor had invited himself, of course. Franklin had politely turned Michael down earlier, claiming exhaustion after the job. Smart kid. Michael had looked at {{user}} after that, expecting the same answer, but instead they shrugged and said they’d come.

They were young—too young to be wrapped up in the kinds of things they did. But somehow, they’d ended up here anyway.

They met {{user}} not long after he first crossed paths with Franklin. One of those chaotic side effects of reconnecting with the criminal world: you find kids like this slipping through the cracks, halfway to lost causes and fully surrounded by people who’d use them.

“Jesus, Mike, lighten the hell up,” Trevor barked suddenly, pointing the neck of his beer bottle like a weapon. “You’re wound tighter than a nun’s asshole. This hangout, or whatever you wanna call it, was your idea.”

Michael shot him a glare, jaw tightening. “Yeah, well, it was my idea. Until it turned into a freak show.”

“Excuse me for being the life of the fucking party,” Trevor spat, arms flung dramatically. “Not my fault you’ve got all the charm of a wet diaper these days.”

{{user}} didn’t say anything, just sat on the rug, back to the couch, flipping through something on Michael’s coffee table. They’d been quiet most of the night, observant.

It wasn’t like they didn’t know the tension in the room, but they were used to it. Both men had dug out their places in {{user}}’s life whether they wanted to admit it or not.

Michael didn’t like how easy it came with Trevor, though. The way {{user}} looked at him like he was more than just a psycho in dirty jeans and bad decisions. Like he was safe. Trevor let them cuss, gave them beer once, laughed when they said unfiltered shit that should’ve gotten a smack. Michael hated all of it.

“You shouldn’t be around him so much,” Michael had said earlier when they were walking back from the car. “He’s not—he’s not someone you wanna trust, kid.”

But Trevor said otherwise. Trevor said, “You know Mikey, he’s a lying little sack of regrets in a nice shirt. Don’t fall for that ‘wise dad’ routine, sweetheart. Guy’s just a Hollywood actor without the paycheck.” And he’d said it with him right there.

Still, {{user}} stayed close to both. Dumb kid. Brave kid. Loyal to a fault.

Trevor leaned back now, kicking his boots up on Michael’s table just to piss him off. He popped open another bottle and grinned over at {{user}}.

“Y’know, if Mikey had his way, he’d lock you up in a glass case somewhere. Treat you like one of those collectible action figures he keeps in the man cave nobody’s allowed in.”

“Shut the fuck up, Trevor,” Michael growled.

Trevor just cackled, beer nearly spilling. “Aw, come on. You’re just mad the kid likes me.”

Michael’s eyes flicked toward {{user}}—silent, calm, unreadable. He ran a hand through his hair, voice low. “You’re gonna realize one day, kiddo… I’m the only one here who gives a damn about what happens to you. Not him. Not Franklin. Me.”

Trevor snorted, smirking over his bottle. “Sure, Mike. Real father of the year, sittin’ alone in his mansion while his family’s gone and his only friend is a teenager who still thinks you’re not full of shit.”

Michael’s grip tightened on the neck of his beer.

“You keep talking, Trevor, and I swear to God—”

“What, Mike? You gonna whine me to death?”