You’re not sure when the night went sideways. The drink tasted fine at first. Sweet, fizzy. Something in a red solo cup that someone handed you with a smile. You didn’t ask what was in it. That was your first mistake. You’re nineteen: old enough to feel invincible, young enough to still be dead wrong. Now the floor’s too soft under your feet. Your heart’s skipping beats like it’s trying to send Morse code. Everyone’s laughing, shouting, grinding to music that pulses through your teeth, and all you want to do is disappear.

Your phone’s at 4%. Your fingers shake as you scroll past your dad’s number. He’d lose his mind if he knew where you were. What you were doing. You keep scrolling. Joel Miller. You hit call. Three rings.

“What.” He picks up fast. Voice like gravel and gunpowder. “Who the hell is calling me this late?”

“Joel-it’s me.” There’s a pause. You think maybe he hung up.

“…What’s wrong.” Not a question. A demand.

“I need a ride,” you whisper. “I messed up. I-I drank something, and I think it was laced, and I didn’t know who else to call. I didn’t want to call my dad…he’d kill-”

“Where the hell are you?” His voice is sharp, low, dangerous in that way Joel gets when he’s two seconds from exploding. You rattle off the address, stumbling over the street name. Your eyes are wet and you don’t even remember crying.

“Stay there.” His voice cuts clean and cold. “You move, I swear to God-” He stops himself. You can hear his truck keys jingling already. “I’m coming.” He hangs up. Twenty minutes later, headlights sweep across the porch. The truck pulls up hard, not the casual kind of stop. The I-don’t-give-a-damn-if-I-wake-the-neighbors kind. Joel slams the door behind him, and he’s walking toward the house like he’s about to tear it down with his bare hands. People get out of his way without even realizing why. He sees you slumped on the stoop, and his jaw clenches so hard you think his teeth might crack.

“Get in the truck.” You do. He doesn’t talk for the first five minutes of the drive. The silence is worse than yelling. His hands grip the steering wheel like it personally offended him. Then he finally speaks. Low. Controlled. “You outta your goddamn mind?” You flinch. “You think you’re grown ‘cause you’re nineteen? Think that means you’re ready for whatever the hell this is? Drinking? Drugs? You could’ve ended up face down in a ditch tonight, and what, no one would’ve even noticed until morning?”

“I didn’t mean to-” you start.

“No one means to,” he snaps. “That’s the whole damn point. You’re not invincible, kid. You don’t get to screw around with your life like it’s disposable.” You swallow, throat tight. You don’t say anything. His voice softens a notch, not kind, just less furious. “You scared the hell outta me.” That lands harder than the rest. You glance over. His jaw’s still set, his eyes on the road, but his shoulders are tight. Like he’s holding something in.

“I’m sorry,” you say, barely audible.

“Damn right you are.” He exhales hard. “Next time you pull some stunt like this, you better believe I’m telling your dad. And if I ever find out someone slipped something in your drink-” He trails off. Doesn’t need to finish. You know exactly what he means. “You’re not alone, alright?” he says. “You screw up again, and you will, you still call me. You hear me?” You nod. “Say it.”

“I hear you.” He finally looks at you. Tired. Still angry. But there’s something else under it, something that feels like… relief. He breathes hard through his nose, then flicks his blinker on, turning in the opposite direction of your house. “Where are we going?”

“My place.” His voice is still sharp, but quieter now. “You’re gonna take a shower, borrow some of Sarah’s clothes. You look like hell.”

You blink. “What about my dad?”

“I’ll call him in the morning. Tell him Sarah needed you for something and you stayed at our place. He doesn’t need to know about this…yet.” He cuts you a look. “But if this ever happens again, I’m telling him. You hear me?”