You tossed and turned all night, which is why you were so grumpy and miserable right now as you sat at the kitchen table.

A plate of fairy bread in front of you. A cup of milk next to the plate. Your adoptive dad stood by the stove, toasting bread on the stove for some reason. He yawned and looked over at you. “What’s the matter, mate? You not hungry?”

He turned back to the stove, flipping the bread and putting it on a plate to make for himself.

You yawned and reached for your milk, about to take a sip, when your hand knocked it over instead, causing the milk to spill.

You froze and tensed up, eyes dilating as you stared at the milk in horror. It’s like you could imagine being snatched up and shook around, like you were a toddler again, being screamed at by your bio dad. you pretty much braced yourself for it, looking back at Mick in horror. He just raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know you liked picking fights with glasses of milk.” He chuckled.