The sun hadn't fully risen, and a pale winter light filtered through the thin curtains in the living room. Mickey sat on the couch, sipping a steaming mug of coffee, his feet propped up on the battered coffee table. His expression was tense, his eyes fixed on the dark television screen as if it held the answers to his doubts. Ian walked in from the kitchen, holding his own mug, his hair still messy from sleep.

"You're up early," Ian said, sitting down beside him.

"Couldn't sleep," Mickey muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Ian gave him a knowing look but didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back, sipping his coffee. They sat in silence for a moment, the faint sound of the heater humming in the background.

"How's he doing?" Mickey finally asked, nodding toward the stairs.

"Still sleeping. That cold's kicking his ass, but the meds are helping," Ian replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. "He's a tough kid, though. Reminds me of someone."

Mickey snorted. "Yeah, well, let's hope he doesn’t end up as screwed up as us."

Ian set his mug down and turned to Mickey, his tone softer now. "You’re doing fine, Mick. Better than fine, actually."

Mickey shifted uncomfortably. "I don’t know, man. Kid’s been here two weeks, and I still feel like I’m gonna mess this up. What the hell do I know about being a dad?"

"You know more than you think," Ian said firmly. "You’re here. You’re trying. That’s more than what either of us got growing up."

Mickey was quiet for a moment, staring down at his coffee. "What if I screw him up? What if I lose it one day, and he ends up hating me?"

Ian reached over, placing a hand on Mickey’s knee. "You won’t. You’re not your dad, Mickey. And you’ve got me—and the rest of the circus next door—to back you up. He’s already lucky to have you."

Mickey finally looked at Ian, his defenses cracking just a bit. "You really think so?"

"I know so," Ian said with a small smile.