The sky's turning that washed-out orange that always makes everything look softer than it feels. Landon drives with one hand on the wheel, arm hanging loose out the window like he's finally relaxed for the first time today.

It should make me relax too. It usually does.

But the second my house comes into view, something in me tenses — just a little — because there are cars out front. More than usual. Different ones too. Not the regulars from Dad's old drinking cycle.

Landon slows down.

"Damn," he mutters, leaning forward. "Your dad throwing a party or something?"

My chest tightens — not hard, just this... pause inside me.

Like my lungs forgot what they were doing for a second.

I keep my face straight.

"Looks like it," I say quietly.

He doesn't notice anything's wrong. Why would he? I've spent years making sure nobody can tell.

He pulls up to my driveway, tapping the steering wheel.

"You want me to drop you later? After it's over?"

"No," I say too fast. Then softer: "It's fine. He'll probably pass out early."

He studies me for a second — just long enough that I force a small smile so he won't ask again.

I lean over and kiss him goodbye.

Just a quick one.

But he holds on a second longer, thumb brushing my jaw like he's checking if I'm okay.

"See you tomorrow," he murmurs.

"Yeah," I whisper back. "Tomorrow."

He waits until I'm inside before driving off. He always does.

The noise hits before the smell — loud voices, the TV blaring, someone laughing too aggressively. Normal stuff. Normal for my house, anyway.

The living room is a mess of beer bottles and boots and men leaning back on the couch like they own the place. Someone yells at the TV about a bad call. Someone else tells him to shut up. The air's thick and warm and smells like stale beer and sweat.

Lily's weaving through the room with a bowl of pretzels, holding it out carefully like she's scared she'll spill. She gives a tiny smile every time someone takes one. She looks tired. Seven-year-olds shouldn't look tired.

So he remembered to pick her up for once, just to make her do this.

Dad's half-slouched on the armchair, talking with some guy leaning forward with a cigarette behind his ear. I don't recognize him. Or the guy next to him. Or the one yelling at the game.

It's just... noise.

Crowded, but normal-crowded.

I feel uncomfortable, but not the kind that makes my hands cold.

Not yet.

Then another voice enters the mix.

Lower.

Calmer.

Too calm for this room.

"Look at this little one."

I turn my head instinctively.

Lily is standing in front of a man on the far end of the couch — someone sitting a little too comfortably, legs spread, beer balanced on his knee. I haven't seen him around here before. Or I don't think I have. His face is half in shadow from the lamp.

"She's a sweet girl," he says, leaning down slightly. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Lily mumbles something. I can't hear it over the TV.

Something in my stomach shifts.

Something off.

Like déjà vu but not the good kind.

I step further in, dropping my backpack by the door. It hits the floor louder than I meant. A couple of guys glance at me, then back to the game.

Dad just tosses a hand in my direction.

"You're late," he grumbles, like I was supposed to be here at a certain time.

I ignore him.

My eyes go back to the man talking to Lily.

He shifts in his seat, and the light hits his face properly for the first time.

My skin goes cold.

I don't move — not at first.

My brain stalls.

Just... quiets.

Everything slows down, like sound is traveling through water.

Nick.

I don't think his name.

It just arrives.

Like a reflex.

Like muscle memory.

He hasn't changed much.

A little older, hair thinner, eyes the same — that flat kind of blue that looks friendly until it isn't. He's smiling at Lily, but something in it isn't right. Too familiar in the wrong way.

My heart isn't racing.

It's the opposite.

It drops low, heavy, like it's hiding behind my ribs.

I feel... small.

Too small.

I walk toward Lily without thinking. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just... moving. My legs know what to do before my head catches up.

"Lil," I say softly. "Come here."

She looks up at me, confused for half a second, then relieved. She sets the bowl down and slips her hand into mine like she was waiting for the cue.

The room quiets just a little. Enough for Dad to notice.

"What're you doing?" he snaps. "She's helping."

"She's tired," I say, barely louder than a breath.

Nick's gaze lifts, landing on me.

And when I finally see his eyes on me—

that's when the fear hits.

Not loud.

Not big.

Just this cold flush under my skin, like all my blood is moving in the wrong direction.

"Well, I'll be damned," he says, leaning back slowly. "Evan, right?"

My throat tightens.

Not painfully.

Just... stuck.

He chuckles.

"Look at you. All grown. Didn't even recognize you for a second."

Someone laughs. I don't know who.

I keep my eyes on Lily's face.

She looks worried.

She doesn't know why.

"Didn't think you'd turn out so—"

He gestures vaguely at me.

"—pretty."

A couple guys chuckles muttering slurs at him. Dad shifts a little but doesn't say anything.

I don't react.

I don't freeze.

I just... fold inward a little, invisible from the inside out.

I brush Lily's hair back gently.

"You wanted ice cream, right?" I say, barely above a whisper.

She looks around the room — at Dad, at Nick, at the noise — then nods.

"Okay," she says.

That's all.

I turn, guiding her by the hand.

Not rushing.

Not running.

Just walking toward the door with a calmness that feels borrowed.

No one stops us.

No one cares enough to.

But I can feel Nick's eyes on my back the whole way out.

Like a hand hovering over a bruise.

I close the door behind us.

The noise fades instantly.

The air suddenly feels colder than it should.

My breathing comes a little too fast, too shallow.

Lily squeezes my hand, and I realize my fingers are shaking.

Lily squeezes my hand again.

"Ev?"

"Yeah," I manage.

Her eyes are wide, confused. "Who was he?"

"A bad man."

Lily looks up at me with big, confused eyes.

I give her a small smile — thin, shaky — and start walking down the street.

Ice cream.

Distance.

Air.

Anything but going back inside— the place that's supposed to be my home.

***

We walk down the street, Lily's small hand wrapped around mine. She keeps glancing up at me like she's waiting for my face to settle into something normal. I try, but I can feel my expression dragging behind me like a shadow.

The evening light is fading, spilling across the houses in this soft, golden stretch that makes everything look kinder than it is. The kind of light people take pictures of. The kind of light that makes you forget what happens when the sun goes down.

It wasn't always like this.

The house, I mean.

Sometimes I forget that.

Or maybe I forget how to remember it.

Mom was still in nursing school then, coming home with her textbooks in her hands and lipstick smudged from laughing too much. Dad used to come up behind her and kiss her neck even when she pretended to be annoyed. They were stupid and young and in love, the kind that forgets the world outside the front door.

I remember Me on the floor with plastic dinosaurs while they argued about whether pizza or Chinese counted as "real cooking."

Mom kissing my forehead every morning.

Dad scooping me up after his shift, smelling like engine grease and soap, calling me "buddy."

It wasn't always yelling.

Or beer bottles.

Or slamming doors.

Sometimes I wonder if those memories are even real or if I just... made them prettier. Because I needed to.

A car passes us, slow. My shoulders twitch before I can stop them. Lily doesn't notice — she's busy tugging at my arm.

He used to be gentle.

I know that sounds impossible.

But he was.

Before life got to him.

Before debts and drinking and everything else cracked him in half.

Sometimes I try to figure out when it changed.

What year.

What day.

But it wasn't one moment. It was a thousand tiny ones. A slammed door here. A late night there. A fight whispered too loud. A bruise on his pride that turned into a bruise on everything else.

Home just... stopped being home.

And I think I gave up on asking why.

Lily squeezes my hand suddenly, pulling me back.

"Ev, look!"

I follow her finger.

An ice cream truck parked near the park, music playing a little too slow, like the batteries are dying.

"Can we?" she asks, hopeful.

"Yeah," I say, even though my voice barely makes it out. "Yeah, of course."

We cross the grass. The ground is slightly damp from sprinklers earlier, and her shoes make that sticky sound every time she lifts a foot. She doesn't seem to mind. Kids never do.

The truck's paint is chipped, and the menu on the side is sun-faded, half the sticker pictures peeling off. The guy working it looks bored, leaning on one elbow and scrolling on his phone.

We walk over.

Lily picks the same thing she always does — strawberry swirl with sprinkles.

I get vanilla, plain. Something easy.

I pay with a crumpled five I probably should've saved for something else.

Lily takes hers with both hands, like she's receiving holy treasure.

She licks the edge carefully, sprinkles already flying onto her shirt.

We start walking again, slower now. The sky's turning this soft bruised purple, bleeding into the tops of the trees. The hills look like dark silhouettes in the distance. The whole world feels... quiet in a way my house never is.

Lily swings our hands a little. She only does that when she's comfortable again. It makes something in my chest unclench just enough.

She looks up at me with ice cream on her nose.

"You okay?" she asks, voice tiny.

"Yeah," I lie. "Eat your ice cream before it melts."

She giggles and does this big cartoonish lick that misses half the cone.

I look around at the street, the trees, the stupid little wildflowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk.

Everything looks soft.

Gentle.

Like the world is trying to apologize for the part of it I have to live in.

The ice cream melts down my fingers. I don't bother wiping it.

Lily bumps her shoulder into my arm, humming some made-up tune under her breath.

We walk like that — slow, quiet, drifting in the kind of evening that feels like it should mean something.

Like maybe, in a different life, this could've been normal.

Us walking home from something fun, not something scary.

I look down at Lily — her little legs kicking forward, her cone dripping everywhere, her smile crooked.

And I think:

This is the only good part.

Right here.

Walking away.

Holding her hand.

Pretending the world is simpler than it is.

Pretending I'm not tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix.

I keep walking

like the ground isn't remembering

every place I almost broke.

Like the night isn't full

of the things I won't name.

Like this tiredness

is just tiredness

and not the weight

of something coming undone.

Sometimes pretending

is the closest thing

I have to rest.