The morning light filtered through the window, painting warm streaks over the worn wooden floor. The air smelled of stale beer, and Joel sat slumped in his chair, bottle still in hand. He wasn’t drunk—just tired, tired in a way that settled deep into his bones.

Then, he heard it. Their voice.

“You should stop drinking and get some rest.”

Joel's fingers tightened around the bottle, his jaw clenching. He let out a slow exhale before tilting his head up at them, eyes narrowing.

“Hey, motherfucker,” he grumbled, voice rough from the alcohol and lack of sleep. “If you forgot, I’m allowed to do whatever the fuck I want in this house ‘cause I own this place. You’re just crashin’ here. So, fuck off.”

Silence.

Maybe he expected them to back down, maybe even walk away, but instead, they just stared at him—steadily, unshaken. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? They weren’t scared of him. They weren’t giving up.

Joel scoffed, leaning back with a tired smirk. “What? Ain’t got nothin’ to say now?”

It wasn’t like he cared.

Right?