Go upstairs to my old bedroom and try to compose myself before facing my father.

The stairs feel longer than they should, each step a small act of cowardice. I can hear the last of the partygoers filtering out behind me—muffled goodbyes, the click of the front door, the distant sound of someone retching in the bushes. I should be down there. I should be helping. But my legs carry me upward, away from the wreckage, toward the one place in this house that still feels like mine.

My old bedroom is at the end of the hall, past the linen closet and the bathroom I shared with no one. The door sticks a little when I push it open—it always has—and the familiar resistance is almost comforting. I step inside and close it behind me, leaning against the wood like I'm barricading myself against the night.

The room is exactly as I left it. That's the thing about my father's house: nothing changes unless he decides it should. The same navy comforter on the bed. The same posters on the wall—band posters from high school, a framed map of the world, a shelf of trophies I never cared about. It's a museum of who I used to be, preserved in amber by a man who doesn't believe in letting go of anything.

I cross to the window and look out at the street. The last of the cars are pulling away, headlights sweeping across the manicured lawn, and I watch them go with a hollow feeling in my chest. The party is over. The night I'd been planning for weeks—the night that was supposed to end with Briana in my arms, her costume on the floor, her body pressed against mine—has collapsed into something unrecognizable.

I pull out my phone. No messages. No missed calls. Just the time glowing back at me: 11:47. It feels later. It feels like the whole world should have stopped turning by now.

I sit on the edge of the bed and run my hands through my hair. The beer I drank earlier is a dull warmth in my stomach, and I can feel the beginnings of a headache forming behind my eyes. I should go back downstairs. I should find Briana. I should do something other than sit here in the dark, hiding from my own father like a child.

But I don't move.

Instead, I replay the moment in my head: the front door opening, the music cutting out, my father's silhouette in the foyer. The way his eyes swept over the room, cataloging every violation, every broken rule. The way they lingered on Briana—just for a second, just long enough to notice—before settling on me with that cold, familiar disappointment.

Wrap this up.

Three words, and I was seventeen again, caught in a lie, waiting for the hammer to fall.

I hate this house. I hate the way it makes me feel small. I hate the way my father's presence lingers in every room, even when he's not here, even when he's three states away on a business trip that was supposed to keep him gone until Monday.

But he's not three states away. He's down the hall, in his study, probably already composing a list of everything I've done wrong. And Briana is down there with him, trying to smooth things over, trying to fix a mess I created.

I should be the one doing that. I should be the one facing him.

Instead, I'm sitting on my childhood bed, staring at the trophies I never earned, waiting for someone else to clean up my mistakes.

The door opens.

I look up, and Briana is standing in the doorway, her tiara in her hand, her hair slightly mussed, her expression unreadable. She's still wearing the costume—the bustier, the skirt, the boots—but something about her has shifted. The easy confidence from earlier is still there, but it's tempered now, softened by something I can't quite name.

"Hey," she says, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. "I thought I'd find you here."

"Sorry," I say automatically. "I just needed a minute."

"I know." She crosses the room and sits beside me on the bed, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her costume. "The last of the guests are gone. I did a quick sweep of the downstairs. It's not perfect, but it's better than it was."

"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, but I don't know what else to say. "I'm sorry. I should have been down there helping."

"You were up here brooding." She says it without judgment, just a simple statement of fact. "It's okay. I get it. Your dad showing up like that... it's a lot."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Yeah. It is."

She's quiet for a moment, her hand finding mine on the comforter. Her fingers are warm, and I realize I've been clenching my fists without noticing. She gently pries them open, lacing her fingers through mine.

"I talked to him," she says.

I turn to look at her, my heart suddenly pounding. "You did? Already?"

"Just for a minute. He was in the study, unpacking his briefcase. I knocked and asked if I could come in." She pauses, and something flickers across her face—amusement, maybe, or surprise. "He's... intense."

"That's one word for it."

"He's not mad, babe. Not really. He's disappointed, but he's not going to, like, disown you or anything." She squeezes my hand. "He's just tired. And I think he's a little hurt that you didn't ask him first."

I snort. "He's not hurt. He doesn't get hurt."

"Everyone gets hurt." She says it softly, like she's explaining something I should already know. "Even dads. Especially dads, maybe. You're his son. You threw a party in his house without telling him. That's got to sting a little."

I want to argue, but the words die in my throat. Because she's not wrong. I know she's not wrong. My father and I have never been good at talking to each other—not really—but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel things. It just means he's better at hiding it than most people.

"What did he say?" I ask.

"Not much. He asked me to sit down. Asked me how long we'd been together. Asked me if I knew about the party beforehand." She pauses, and her lips quirk into a small smile. "I told him the truth. That I did know, and that I should have talked you out of it, and that I was sorry."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." She turns to face me, her knee bumping against mine. "Look, I know you and your dad have a complicated relationship. I get that. But I think... I think he just wants to feel respected. And right now, he doesn't. Not by you, and not by me."

I stare at her, something shifting in my chest. "So what are you saying?"

She's quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand. Then she says, "I'm saying I think I can fix this. But I need you to trust me."

"Trust you to do what?"

"To talk to him." She says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "To really talk to him. Not just apologize and run away, but actually listen to what he has to say. Let him vent. Let him feel heard." She pauses, her eyes searching mine. "I'm good at this, babe. I know how to handle men like your dad. Older men, powerful men, men who are used to getting their way. I know how to make them feel respected without letting them walk all over me."

I frown. "What does that mean?"

"It means I can smooth things over." She leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I can make him see that this was just a stupid mistake, not a personal attack. I can make him remember that you're his son, and that he loves you, and that one party isn't worth ruining your relationship over."

I want to believe her. I want to believe that she can walk into my father's study and emerge with everything fixed, the way she fixes everything else in my life. But there's a part of me—the part that's been shaped by twenty years of living in that man's shadow—that knows better.

"He's not easy to talk to," I say. "He doesn't just... open up. He's not that kind of person."

"I know." She smiles, and there's something in her eyes that I can't quite read—something almost like excitement. "But I'm not asking him to open up. I'm just asking him to listen. And I think he will. I think he's already starting to."

"What do you mean?"

She hesitates, just for a second, and I see something flicker across her face—uncertainty, maybe, or something else entirely. Then it's gone, replaced by that same easy confidence.

"I mean he likes me," she says. "I can tell. He was looking at me the way men look at me when they're trying to decide if I'm a threat or an opportunity." She laughs, a small, self-deprecating sound. "I know that sounds arrogant. But it's true. I've been dealing with men like your dad my whole life. I know how to read them."

I don't know what to say to that. The image of my father looking at Briana—really looking at her—makes something twist in my gut. It's not jealousy, exactly. It's something more complicated. Something I don't want to examine too closely.

"So what's your plan?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.

She squeezes my hand again. "I'm going to go back down there. I'm going to talk to him. And by the time I'm done, he's going to be so charmed by me that he'll forget he was ever mad at you." She grins, and for a moment, she looks like the girl I fell in love with—bright and fearless and utterly sure of herself. "Trust me. I've got this."

I look at her—at the golden tiara in her hand, at the red bustier hugging her curves, at the blue skirt that barely covers her thighs—and I feel a sudden, irrational surge of protectiveness. I don't want her to go down there. I don't want her to face my father alone. I don't want her to charm him or placate him or do any of the things she's offering to do.

But I also don't want to face him myself.

And that's the truth, isn't it? That's the ugly, cowardly truth. I'd rather let my girlfriend fight my battles for me than have one uncomfortable conversation with my own father.

"Okay," I hear myself say. "Okay. But if he's a dick to you—"

"He won't be." She leans in and kisses me, soft and sweet, her lips lingering on mine. "I promise. Just give me twenty minutes. I'll have him eating out of the palm of my hand."

She stands, smoothing down her skirt, and heads for the door. But she pauses with her hand on the knob, looking back at me over her shoulder.

"Hey," she says. "I love you. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Good." She smiles, and then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the sound of her boots on the stairs, and I try to ignore the cold knot of dread forming in my stomach.

Twenty minutes. She said twenty minutes.

I pull out my phone and check the time again. 11:52.

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

I wait.

The minutes crawl by like hours. I try to distract myself—scrolling through my phone, straightening the already-straight items on my desk, staring out the window at the empty street—but nothing works. My mind keeps circling back to the same image: Briana in my father's study, sitting across from him in that ridiculous costume, trying to charm her way through twenty years of accumulated tension.

I should be down there. I should be the one having this conversation. But every time I think about walking down those stairs, my legs refuse to move. It's like my body has decided that hiding is the only viable strategy, and my brain has given up trying to argue.

At 12:08, I can't take it anymore. I leave my room and walk to the top of the stairs, straining to hear something—anything—from the study below. But the house is silent. No voices. No movement. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer.

I creep down the stairs, my heart pounding, and pause at the bottom. The study door is closed. I can see a sliver of light beneath it, warm and golden, but no sound escapes. I stand there for a long moment, listening, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing does.

I turn and walk into the living room, surveying the damage. The rug is stained, the furniture is askew, and there's a faint smell of beer and sweat hanging in the air. I should clean up. I should do something useful. But instead, I pour myself a drink from the bar cart—a heavy pour of my father's good bourbon—and sink onto the sofa.

The alcohol burns going down, but it helps. It dulls the edges of my anxiety, softens the sharp corners of my thoughts. I take another sip, then another, and I let my eyes drift closed.

The house settles around me, creaking and sighing like an old ship. I listen to the sounds, letting them wash over me, and I try not to think about what's happening behind that closed door.

Twenty minutes, she said.

It's been almost forty.

I take another drink, and the warmth spreads through my chest, and the world begins to blur at the edges.