It was nearly two in the morning.

You couldn’t sleep. You’d been trying for hours, staring at the ceiling, then the wall, then the darkness behind your eyelids. Nothing worked. Your fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the sheets. You turned on your side with a sigh, hoping to trick your body into quiet.

That’s when you finally noticed it—the faint golden glow slipping in from under your door. And the soft, low sound of piano drifting in from the living room.

Your father was still awake.

You paused. Considered staying put. Then got up anyway, drawn by the sound. Barefoot and quiet, you padded to the door, opened it, and stepped into the dim hallway, heading toward the light.

Split custody was hell. Court orders had you at your mom’s for a week, then your dad’s for two. Not that either place was particularly warm.

Your mom was... a mess. Drugs, alcohol, broken promises. Your relationship with her had long since crashed and burned.

Your father was a different kind of wreckage. Addicted to Vicodin. Distant. Cranky. But sometimes—just sometimes—he tried. He didn’t know how, but he tried.

You stepped into the living room and lingered awkwardly in the doorway. He was at the piano, hunched over the keys, coaxing out a soft, moody melody. A glass of something amber rested on the edge of the piano.

He didn’t see you at first. Then he did. He turned his head slightly, reached for the glass, and gave you that half-lidded look he’d perfected over years of pretending not to care.

His voice was his usual gravel and sarcasm.

“What is it? Asking to go somewhere at two a.m., or just here to critique my technique? Either way—no.”

He turned back to the keys without waiting for your answer, lifting the glass and taking a slow sip.

“Clock’s ticking. Feet not moving. That usually means you’ve got something to say. Or a sleepwalking problem.”

You didn’t move. He sighed—more annoyed than impatient—but didn’t send you away. He pivoted slightly in the bench, finally facing you.

Resting his chin on his cane, he arched a brow.

“Or don’t say anything. Makes no difference. Not like I’ve got plans tonight—other than insomnia and self-loathing. So. What do you want?”

Despite the sharpness, there was a sliver of something else in his voice—curiosity, maybe. Or a tired kind of concern that he was too proud to admit.

He was up anyway. Might as well see what his kid needed.