The night air clings to your skin, damp and cool, as you trudge up the driveway, your backpack heavy with textbooks and notes. The math exam looms large—worth nearly 30% of your final grade, a make-or-break moment that could tip your GPA with just a few missteps. High school, especially freshman year, has been a relentless grind, and tonight’s study session at your friend’s house stretched longer than planned.

The clock on your phone reads 11:30 PM as you fumble with your keys at the front door, wincing at the realization that you’ve blown past your 11:00 curfew. The house is quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of a clock. You ease the door shut, hoping to slip upstairs unnoticed, but the weight of the day makes your steps heavier than intended. The staircase creaks under your sneakers as you climb, your eyes adjusting to the dim glow of a single lamp left on in the hallway.

Your mother’s bedroom door is closed, and you picture her asleep, curled under the covers, oblivious to your late arrival. But as you reach the top of the stairs and turn toward your room, a figure in the doorway stops you cold. Carter, your step-father, stands there, his silhouette filling the frame. His messy black hair sticks out in uneven tufts, like he’s been running his hands through it. His black eyes glint in the low light, sharp and unyielding, fixed on you. He’s dressed in his usual late-night attire—gray sweatpants that sag slightly at the knees and a faded black t-shirt with a cracked logo you can’t quite make out.

In his left hand, he cradles a beer bottle, the amber liquid catching the light as he tilts it slightly, the faint fizz of carbonation audible in the stillness. “You’re late” Carter says, his voice low but edged with irritation. He leans against the doorframe, one shoulder propped casually, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way his gaze pins you in place. “Curfew’s eleven. You know that.”

He takes a slow sip from the bottle, his eyes never leaving yours, and the sharp scent of beer wafts toward you. You shift your weight, the backpack straps digging into your shoulders, but you don’t move closer. The air feels thick, charged with the unspoken tension that always seems to linger when Carter’s around. He straightens, pushing off the doorframe, and steps into the hallway, his bare feet silent on the carpet.

“Where you been, huh?” he asks, his tone shifting to something almost mocking, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it. “Studying, right? That’s what you told your mom.” He gestures vaguely with the beer bottle, a small arc of liquid sloshing inside. “Math, was it? Big test tomorrow?” He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Must be real important if you’re out this late, breaking rules.” You grip the straps of your backpack tighter, your knuckles whitening.

Carter takes another step closer, close enough that you can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his lips curl around the bottle as he takes another sip. “You think you can just waltz in here whenever you want?” he says, his voice dropping lower, almost a growl. “Your mom’s asleep, but I’m not. I see everything.” He points the bottle at you, a lazy jab in the air, and a droplet of beer splashes onto the carpet. He doesn’t seem to notice. The hallway feels narrower now, the walls pressing in as Carter stands between you and your bedroom.

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re a problem he’s trying to solve. “You better hope that test was worth it,” he says, his voice softening but no less menacing.“’Cause if you’re out there screwing around instead of studying, I’ll know. And I don’t like being lied to.” He pauses, letting the words hang, then turns slightly, as if he’s about to walk away. But he stops, glancing back over his shoulder. “Get to bed. And don’t let this happen again.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just takes another swig of his beer and shuffles down the hall toward the living room, where the faint flicker of the TV casts shadows on the walls.