The lighter flicked once—twice—before it finally caught.

A small flame bloomed to life in the dim glow behind the convenience store, casting uneven shadows across the cracked pavement and the backs of the boys gathered there. Carter leaned casually against the wall like he owned the place, Greyson snickering beside him, and Kage watching with that sharp, expectant look that always made Michael’s stomach twist.

“Come on, Mikey,” Carter said, holding the cigarette out between two fingers. “It’s not a big deal.”

Michael shifted his weight, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. “I told you—I don’t wanna do it yet. It’s stupid.”

Greyson laughed under his breath. “Yet? What, you got a calendar for bad decisions now?”

Kage tilted his head slightly. “Or you just gonna keep acting like you’re better than us?”

That wasn’t fair. Michael’s chest tightened. “I’m not— I never said that.”

“Then prove it,” Carter pressed, stepping closer and pushing the cigarette into Michael’s hand. “One hit. That’s it. Or we’re done covering for you next time.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Michael’s grip tightened slightly around the cigarette. He didn’t even know what “next time” meant—but the threat of being cut off, of being alone, of losing the only group that chose him… it dug deep.

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, he lifted it.

The first inhale was wrong immediately—too harsh, too hot. Smoke clawed down his throat, burning, suffocating. He coughed hard, doubling over as the others burst into laughter.

“Dude, you’re dying already,” Greyson teased.

Michael waved them off, eyes watering. “Shut up— I’m fine—”

But he wasn’t. His chest hurt, his head felt light, and something about the whole thing made his skin crawl. He handed the cigarette back quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Happy?” he muttered.

Carter smirked. “See? Not so bad.”

Michael didn’t answer. He just stood there, heart pounding, wishing he could rewind the last thirty seconds.

By the time he reached home, the sky had darkened into that deep blue just before night fully settled. The porch light was off.

Good.

Michael exhaled, shoulders loosening slightly as he stepped up to the door. If the house was empty, he could shower, change, open a window—maybe even spray something to mask the smell. He’d be fine. No questions, no disappointment, no—

The door creaked open.

Warm light spilled into the entryway.

And there, standing just past the threshold, was his dad.

William Afton looked exactly as he always did—calm, composed, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, tie loosened just enough to show he was home but not careless. But it wasn’t his posture that made Michael freeze.

It was his eyes.

Soft. Attentive. And already knowing something was wrong.

“Hey, kiddo,” William said gently, his voice steady as ever. “You’re home later than usual.”

Michael swallowed, stepping inside and quickly shrugging off his hoodie. “Yeah, uh—just hanging out.”

William didn’t move right away. He simply watched him for a moment, quiet in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable—but wasn’t easy to hide from either.

Then, subtly, he took a small step closer.

And paused.

Michael’s heart dropped.

William’s expression didn’t harden. If anything, it softened further—but there was a quiet shift, something more serious settling behind his eyes.

“…Michael,” he said, still calm, still gentle. “What happened?”

Michael forced a shrug, avoiding eye contact. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

But his voice wavered—and they both heard it.

William didn’t push immediately. He never did. Instead, he rested a hand lightly against the doorframe, grounding himself there, giving Michael space without letting him slip away.

“I can smell it,” he said softly—not accusing, not angry. Just honest.