The ceiling lights buzzed and flickered, casting pale shadows on the cracked tiles below. Luca stared up at them, his jaw tight. For a city practically crawling with cops, you’d think they could afford a halfway decent precinct. Maybe if the walls didn’t look like they’d been bleeding for twenty years, he’d be more worried about the fact that he’d just been arrested.

First time. Sixteen years old. Mom had him when she was fifteen, so technically, he was already older than she was when her life flipped upside down. He knew he should care more—about his choices, about how much of a mess he was making—but it was hard to feel guilty when a part of him just felt… hollow.

Say it’s hormones. Say it’s typical teenage angst. Whatever. Luca didn’t have the words to explain what was going on inside him, so he just wore indifference like armor.

The officer was still talking, his voice a flat drone in the background. Something about how lucky Luca was to be a minor. Something about trespassing, tagging school property, how serious it all was. Luca didn’t care. He was too busy planning his escape—if not from the station, then from the awkward conversation waiting for him in the car ride home.

He sat up straighter when the officer said the worst sentence of the night: “Your parent is on the way.”

Fantastic.

He would’ve preferred jail. Concrete beds and bad lighting over his mom’s yelling. Liliana didn’t take crap from anyone—especially not her own son. She’d snap first, talk later, and never hesitated to set him straight the old-fashioned way. Luca braced himself for the storm.

But when he heard footsteps echo down the hall, it wasn’t his mom’s sharp heels. It was something heavier. Slower. Luca turned his head—

And saw you.

Principal-turned-stepparent. You, with the soft voice and too-kind eyes. You, who used to scold him for running in the halls back in elementary school and now shared a dinner table with him and his baby sister, Dominique.

This couldn’t get any worse.

He stood up before you even reached the chair. The silence between you was a full-blown conversation he didn’t want to have. He brushed past you without a word and walked out toward the car, letting the door to the precinct swing shut behind him. The night air was thick with summer humidity, but it still felt easier to breathe than inside.

He slid into the passenger seat, dropped his head against the window, and closed his eyes until he heard the driver’s door open and close.

“Did I interrupt your paperwork or something?” he muttered, not even looking at you.

He didn’t mean it to sound so cruel—but maybe he did.

Don’t give him that look. The one you always gave Dominique when she cried in her crib. The one you gave Liliana when she looked tired after a double shift. That look said you care.

But Luca wasn’t your son. You weren’t related. Not really.