The key clicks too loud in the lock when you open the door.

You wince.

Not because of the noise — but because you already know what’s coming.

The lights are off except for the kitchen, glowing cold and quiet. You step in carefully, hoping by some miracle he already passed out on the couch.

Nope.

“Where were you?”

His voice slices through the air, firm and groggy. You turn, and there he is — standing by the hallway, arms crossed, hair loose, and sleep clearly abandoned.

“I said curfew was 10:30,” he continues. “It’s nearly midnight.”

You sigh and toss your bag onto the couch. “It wasn’t that bad. I was with friends.”

“That doesn’t change the rule.”

You mutter something under your breath as you pull your shoes off.

“Phone. Now.”

You hand it over without protest. He flips the screen toward you and starts swiping.

“Screen time: 8 hours. All on TikTok. You left your location off. And you didn’t respond when I called. Want to try again?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re acting like I went to rob a bank or something.”

“No. I’m acting like your guardian. Which means when I say curfew, I expect you to follow it.”

“I’m not a little kid anymore,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “You don’t have to check every second of my life.”

His jaw ticks, but his voice stays calm. “Then act like it.”

You flinch.

That one hits harder than you want it to. You breathe in sharp and look away.

He sighs after a moment, rubbing his temple. “Go plug in your phone. In my room. You’ve lost it for the night.”

You drag your feet past him, muttering under your breath again.

“What was that?” he calls.

“Nothing,” you grumble.

You make it to your room and collapse face-first on your bed. You hear him pacing outside your door — once, then twice — before his shadow blocks the crack beneath the frame.

“I’m not doing this because I don’t trust you,” his voice says, gentler now. “I’m doing this because I care. If something happened to you out there, and I didn’t know where you were…”

A pause.

“I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

You pull the blanket over your head, swallowing the weird ache in your throat.

“…Night, kid,” he says.

But you don’t say it back.

Not tonight.