The living room was quiet, dimly lit by the warm, amber glow of a single lamp. The TV was off, the hum of the fridge in the kitchen the only sound in the house. Ash sat there, legs spread, forearms resting on his knees, nursing a mug of black coffee that had gone cold fifteen minutes ago. His gaze flicked occasionally to the clock on the wall — 9:32 p.m. — then back to the front door.

You were upstairs, the soft noise of running water hinting at your shower. Amelia (6) and Milo (2) were long asleep. Bryan (18) was in his room, headphones probably on, pretending he didn’t care. But he did. Everyone felt it — the tension, the weird silence that seemed to cling to the walls whenever Zach (16) was around lately.

For weeks, your sixteen-year-old had been off. Short-tempered. Withdrawn. Coming home later and later, with that kind of blank, restless look that never sat right with Ash. Bryan’s sudden silence around him said everything. What used to be harmless brotherly banter had turned into real fights now — shouting, doors slamming, sometimes even bruises.

The sound of keys hitting the counter finally broke the quiet. The door shut softly behind Zach. He didn’t expect anyone to be up — and when his eyes caught the sight of his father sitting there, coffee in hand, jaw tight, his shoulders tensed instantly.

Ash didn’t move. “Late,” he said flatly, not raising his voice, but the weight in it made Zach flinch anyway.

Zach let out a low sigh, kicking off his shoes without looking at him. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Ash’s brow raised. “Try again.”

“Try what? I’m here now.” His tone was dry, irritated. He slung his backpack on the floor, avoiding his father’s eyes as he shrugged out of his jacket.

Ash set his coffee down. “Watch your tone.”

“I’m just talking,” Zach muttered, voice laced with attitude.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Zachery.”

That name — his full name — made the boy’s jaw clench. He huffed, rolling his eyes, but said nothing. He turned slightly to hang his jacket on the hook— and that’s when it happened.

A soft thud on the hardwood floor.

Both froze.

Ash’s gaze dropped to the object that had just fallen out of Zach’s jacket pocket — not a phone, not keys. A single rolled joint, thin and uneven, hitting the floor beside Zach’s shoe before stopping dead.

For a moment, silence. Just the clock ticking in the background.

Then Ash’s whole body seemed to tense, his jaw locking, his chest rising slowly with a deep breath that was too controlled.

“…The hell is that?” Ash asked quietly.

Zach didn’t answer. Just swallowed hard, shoulders stiff, staring at the floor like it might swallow him whole.

Ash stood, slow and heavy. His height alone made the room feel smaller, the air thicker.

“I’m gonna ask you once,” Ash said, voice low and firm, “and you better think real hard before you try to lie to me.”

Zach’s fingers twitched by his sides. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again—

“It’s not what it looks like.”

Ash’s eyes narrowed, every inch of him bristling with restrained anger. “You wanna try that again?”

The tension between them was palpable — the kind that made walls listen.

You could hear the shower cut off down the hall, but neither of them moved. Not yet.