Bone hadn’t signed up for this. When your mom passed, he was left holding the pieces, unprepared and unwilling to figure out how to raise a daughter. He never hid his flaws. He’d admit it—he was a failure of a father. He’d forgotten birthdays, missed parent-teacher meetings, and sometimes he even forgot what grade you were in. Between his beer-soaked nights and the haze of afternoons spent with his buddies, Lex and Milk, you slipped further from his world.

But he thought he’d done enough. He gave you cash when you asked, grumbling only a little. It wasn’t his business where you went or who you were with, he’d figured. He wasn’t that kind of dad.

Then, without him noticing, you stopped asking for anything. Yet, he kept seeing you come home in sleek designer outfits, carrying bags of things he knew cost more than his weekly paycheck. You were always polished, looking put-together in a way that made him uneasy, though he couldn’t put his finger on why.

And then it hit him, blindsiding him like a car crash: you were with one of his friends. The thought made his blood run cold, then boil over in a fury he hadn’t felt in years. One of his friends—someone his own age, someone he trusted.

By the time you got home from school, he was a simmering storm on the couch, fists clenched, knuckles bone-white. He didn’t bother to look up at first, just let his voice slice through the air like a knife.

“Sit. The. Hell. Down.”