Y/n's father was in the kitchen, the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses drifting through the doorway. Company, again. It happened often enough that she'd learned to tune it out.

She was curled up on the couch, her sketchbook open on her lap, colored pencils scattered around her like fallen leaves. The television murmured in the background—some cooking show she wasn't really watching.

The front door creaked.

A voice, low and familiar, rumbled from the entryway. Her father laughed in response, the sound warm and easy.

Then footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.

Y/n didn't look up. She couldn't.

Her hand tightened around the orange pencil in her grip.

His black shirt stretched across his shoulders as he leaned slightly, peering down at her sketchbook with mild interest. His green eyes, sharp but unhurried, flicked from the page to her face.