It was just after 11 p.m. when Luka stirred from sleep, his brow furrowing at the muffled shouting seeping through the walls. He sat up slowly, blinking against the dark, a low throb forming at his temple. The house was usually quiet at this hour. Peaceful. But tonight, voices carried—one in particular, loud and messy and too emotional to be just irritated.

He recognized it immediately.

{{user}}’s sister.

Luka climbed out of bed, dragging {{user}}’s oversized hoodie around himself like a blanket, the sleeves swallowing his hands. He walked towards the door, his aching at the sharp edge in her voice coming from the living room.

“…You just sit there, like you don’t even care,” she groaned, tone brittle. “Do you even know how frustrating that is? Everyone around you falls apart and you just—watch. Like nothing ever touches you!”

Luka’s steps slowed as he reached the staircase. He peered through the railing, blinking sleepily. {{user}} sat on the couch, one arm slung lazily along the backrest, the other holding a half-empty cup of tea. His face was unreadable—calm, detached, too calm for the way she was yelling.

“Are you even listening to me?” she snapped, voice rising an octave. “You used to care. You used to actually talk to me.”

{{user}} didn’t respond immediately. He took a slow sip from his cup, then finally said, “You’re yelling. Again.”

She let out a bitter laugh and threw her hands up. “So what? So are you gonna play the good guardian now? Pretend like you’re above all of this because you’re raising a kid?”

At that, Luka descended the last few steps quietly, his face peeking into view. {{user}} noticed him first.

“Luka.” {{user}}'s voice was soft but steady. “You should be in bed.”

The woman startled and turned. “Oh my god, Luka—sweetheart, I didn’t know you were awake.”