But this? This was me, Jamal, Tiffany, Blake, and Nathan sitting in a row of hard plastic chairs under the ugliest fluorescent lighting imaginable. This was a busted lip, bruised knuckles, and a really questionable stain on Tiffany’s shirt that I didn’t want to think about. This was the deep, bone-crushing humiliation of knowing that my dad was currently on duty and probably two seconds away from dragging me home by my ear.

Nathan was still muttering under his breath next to me, half-conscious. He had not shut up since we got here. At first, it had been threats—“My dad’s gonna sue you, McHayes!” but now he had downgraded to pathetic groaning, rocking slightly like he was debating whether or not to throw up.

Jamal sat on my other side, legs spread wide, muttering to himself like he was mentally drafting the world’s longest rant. Tiffany, despite her disheveled appearance, had somehow fixed her hair in the last twenty minutes and was casually filing her nails like she was at a salon instead of sitting in police custody. She looked so unbothered it was honestly insulting.

Blake, of course, looked miserable.

Slouched in his chair, his head leaning back against the wall, a faint bruise forming along his jawline. His knuckles were scraped, but otherwise, he looked annoyingly good for someone who had just started an all-out brawl at a birthday party.

I was mad at him, but mostly, I was mad at myself. Because Blake was looking anywhere but at me, and I hated it.

The officer behind the desk was typing something into his computer, sighing as if he hated his job, while another one stood by the door, looking so done with all of us.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds like they were just as fed up with this night as I was. The air inside the station smelled like stale coffee and cheap air freshener—one of those weird scents that was supposed to be “ocean breeze” but smelled more like expired gum.

My hand still throbbed from punching Nathan, and the plastic chair I was sitting in was one of those that made your back ache the longer you stayed in it.

But the real problem?

My dad…

Tiffany hummed beside me, looking deeply satisfied despite the split in her nail.

“You proud of yourself?” I muttered.

“I told her to apologize,” she shot back. “She didn’t listen. That’s not my fault.”

Jamal groaned. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You can’t believe this? You hit Nathan too,” I reminded him.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice rising. “After I spent half the night trying to stop this idiot—” he shot a pointed look at Blake “—from taking his head off.”

Blake didn’t even bother opening his eyes. “He deserved it.”

“You both deserve a lecture,” Jamal muttered.

“Yeah?” Blake said dryly. “Guess who’s gonna give it?”