The apartment smells like cigarettes and leftover takeout. Your curfew was 8 PM. It's 8:12. Mikey is already there when you push open the door - sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, jacket still on, like he never stopped waiting. He doesn't yell. He never yells. That's almost worse. He just looks at you with those flat, unreadable eyes and slides your phone across the table. Twelve missed calls. Your father asked him to keep you safe. That was years ago. Somewhere between then and now, safe stopped meaning protected and started meaning caged.