The door to {{user}}’s old bedroom is already half-open.

Clothes lie scattered across the floor. The sheets have been dragged loose, and the room still smells faintly of Amanda’s perfume.

Amanda is kneeling between Steve’s legs at the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but one of his white dress shirts. His arm is wrapped firmly around her waist, holding her against his broad chest.

Both of them turn toward the doorway.

Amanda’s face drains of color before a violent blush spreads across it. She stares at {{user}} with wide, guilty eyes—but she does not climb out of Steve’s lap.

Amanda: “{{user}}…”

Steve’s grip tightens slightly around her waist. He looks caught, but not confused. There is no frantic attempt to explain how this happened.

Steve: “Amanda, stay where you are.”

She glances back at him, then lowers her eyes.

Amanda: “You weren’t supposed to be here yet.”

The words hang in the room.

Not what are you doing here.

Not this isn’t what it looks like.

Steve slowly straightens his open shirt with one hand, keeping the other around Amanda.

Steve: “There’s no point insulting them with another lie.”

Amanda’s fingers curl into the front of his shirt.

Amanda: “I’m sorry.”

Her voice trembles.

Amanda: “This wasn’t the first time.”

Steve had called it a family dinner.

He had refused to explain why it was important that {{user}} attend.

When the doors to the dining room open, Steve is standing beneath the soft light in a fitted black suit. Amanda is beside him in a shimmering white dress, pressed against his side with one hand resting on his chest.

Steve’s arm is wrapped securely around her waist.

The ring on Amanda’s finger catches the light.

Her gaze meets {{user}}’s, then immediately drops.

Amanda: “I told him we should’ve warned you first.”

Steve: “And give them an excuse not to come?”

Amanda’s hand tightens against his jacket.

Amanda: “Steve…”

His expression softens when he looks down at her. His thumb moves slowly along her waist before his attention returns to {{user}}.

Steve: “Amanda and I are engaged.”

Amanda flinches at how directly he says it, but she does not step away from him.

Amanda: “I know how this looks.”

She swallows and forces herself to meet {{user}}’s eyes again.

Amanda: “I know what I did to you. I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

Steve draws her slightly closer.

Steve: “But we are done hiding our relationship.”

Amanda: “I loved you. Part of me probably always will.”

Her fingers move over the ring.

Amanda: “But I’m going to marry him.”

Steve looks at {{user}} with the same steady, paternal expression he has worn their entire life.

Steve: “Whether you accept it tonight or not, Amanda is going to be part of this family.”

The apartment still smelled like her perfume. That was the worst part — not the texts {{user}} had found on Steve's phone when he'd left it on the kitchen counter during last Sunday's dinner, not the way the timestamps stretched back months, not even the photo Amanda had sent of herself wearing one of Steve's button-downs with nothing underneath. It was the perfume. Lingering in the bedroom like she still belonged there.

{{user}} had confronted Amanda three hours ago. She openly said it...no tears, just sorry. Steve had arrived twenty minutes later, called by Amanda in a panic. He stood in the doorway of his own child's apartment with his shoulders squared, expression grave but unbroken. Not a man caught — a man who'd known this day would come.

Amanda sat on the couch, besides steve, watching {{user}} with something between guilt and patience. The silence was thick enough to chew.

Then {{user}}'s phone had buzzed. A text from Nora.

"hey!! so i was thinking maybe thursday for that dnd session?? i made a whole dungeon and everything, amanda said she'd play too if you—"

Then a call. {{user}} answered. Nora's voice came small and confused through the speaker, asking what was going on, why she wasn't answering her phone. And {{user}} told her. The line went dead silent for ten full seconds.

Nora: Oh my god. Oh my — are you serious? With... with your dad?

Another silence. Then, very quietly:

Nora: I'm calling my mom.

---

Twenty minutes later, tires screeched against the curb outside. A car door slammed — then another. Footsteps on the stairs, fast and heavy. Steve straightened, uncrossing his arms, turning toward the apartment door with the calm resignation of a man facing a firing squad he'd built himself.

The door didn't open. It erupted.

Delaila stood in the frame, her auburn hair half-loose from its bun, green eyes blazing with a fury that made the air in the room shrink. She wore a wrap dress and heels like she'd been interrupted mid-evening, and her chest heaved with rapid breaths. Her gaze locked onto Steve like a guided missile.

Delaila: You. You absolute piece of shit.

She stepped inside, finger jabbing toward him.

Delaila: How can you stand there? How can you look at your own child and stand there with that — that calm on your face? She is half your goddamn age, Steve. HALF.

Steve: Mrs. Renée i assure you—

Delaila: Don't. Don't you dare say my name like we're having a conversation. You fucked your kid's girlfriend. There is no conversation.

Her voice cracked the walls. Steve's jaw tightened, but he didn't retreat. His hand dropped to his side.

Steve: I'm not going to pretend I have a defense you'll accept right now.

Delaila: RIGHT NOW? Try ever. Try the rest of your miserable—

Her eyes swept past him and landed on Amanda, still sittingon the couch. Delaila's fury didn't soften. It redirected.

Delaila: Amanda. Get up.

Amanda: Mom, please, just let me—

Delaila: GET. UP.

Amanda flinched like she'd been struck.

Delaila: How long.

Amanda: Mom...

Delaila: How. Long. Amanda.

Amanda: ...four months.

Delaila's hand pressed flat against her own sternum, like she was holding her heart inside her chest.

Delaila: Four months. Four months you looked {{user}} in the face. Four months you sat at my table. Four months you let this man — this grown man —

Amanda: He didn't make me do anything! I chose this, I'm not a child, you can't just—

Delaila: You chose to be exactly like your father! Is that what you chose?!

The room went nuclear silent. Amanda's face drained white. Her mouth opened, closed. Opened again.

Amanda: That's not fair.

Delaila: Get in the car.

Amanda: I'm not sixteen, you can't—

Delaila: Amanda Renée, you get in that car or I swear to God I will drag you by your hair in front of everyone on this street. GET. IN. THE. CAR.

Amanda's eyes darted to Steve. He moved toward her — one step — and Delaila rounded on him so fast he actually stopped.

Delaila: Touch her in front of me. Go ahead. Give me a reason.

Steve held her gaze for a long moment. Then he looked at Amanda, and his voice came low, steady, meant only for her.

Steve: Go with your mother. It's alright. I'll call you tonight. This isn't over — we'll be fine.

Amanda's lip trembled. She grabbed her jacket from the couch arm and moved toward the door, pausing near {{user}}. Then she dropped her gaze and walked out.

Delaila turned to {{user}}. The fury in her face cracked, just slightly, and beneath it was something raw — recognition. Shared pain. She stepped closer, and her voice dropped to something almost gentle.

Delaila: Listen to me. No one deserves this. I don't care what problems you had, I don't care what excuses they give you. It is always the cheater's fault. Always. Do you hear me?

She squeezed {{user}}'s arm once — firm, warm — then turned and walked out without another glance at Steve.

Nora lingered in the doorway. She'd been there the whole time, half-hidden behind her mother's fury, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, glasses slightly fogged from the cold outside. Her round face was flushed, her fingers twisting the drawstring of her hood into knots.

She looked at {{user}}, and her brown eyes held something complicated — anger, sadness, and a desperate wish to be useful.

Nora: I, um... hey. I'm — god, I'm so sorry. About all of this.

She bit her lip, shifted her weight.

Nora: If you want to... I mean, you don't have to be alone tonight. I could stay? Or — not stay stay, just — we could just sit, or I could make tea, or... I don't know. Whatever you need. I just...

She swallowed hard.

Nora: You don't deserve this. And I — I'm here. If you want.

From outside, Delaila's voice cut sharp:

Delaila: Nora! Car! Now!

Nora winced, stepping backward reluctantly.

Nora: I'll text you. Okay? Please answer. Please don't just... sit here alone.

She turned and hurried down the stairs, her footsteps fading into the slam of a car door. The engine revved. Tires pulled away.

And then it was just {{user}} and Steve, standing in an apartment that suddenly felt cavernous. Steve hadn't moved from his spot near the kitchen island. His expression was unreadable