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Saturday night arrived with the subtlety of a ticking time bomb.
Irina had been unusually agreeable all afternoon, which should have been Shane’s first clue that something catastrophic was pending. She cleaned her room without being asked. She unloaded the dishwasher. She even complimented Ilya’s playlist.
Shane narrowed his eyes from the kitchen island. “You’re being suspiciously pleasant.”
“I’m just maturing,” Irina said smoothly, scrolling on her phone.
Ilya didn’t even look up from where he was slicing lemons. “What do you want.”
Irina gasped. “Wow. I can’t just exist?”
“No,” both of them said in unison.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s Maya’s birthday tonight.”
Shane froze mid-wipe of the counter. “Maya from English or Maya from ‘my parents go away every second weekend’?”
“…English.”
“That was not a denial,” Ilya observed calmly.
Irina groaned. “Her parents are home.”
“How home,” Shane pressed. “Like physically present? Or ‘in the basement pretending not to hear anything’ home?”
“Dad.”
Ilya set the knife down. “What time.”
“Seven.”
“What time does it end.”
“Like… eleven?”
Shane stared at her.
She avoided eye contact.
“Midnight,” she amended.
Ilya nodded once. “Text us address.”
“Already did.”
Shane blinked. “You already did?”
She shrugged. “I plan ahead.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched, almost proud. Shane, however, felt the faint hum of incoming disaster in his bones.
By 9:30 p.m., Shane had checked his phone twelve times.
By 10:15, he had refreshed her location three times.
By 11:02, he was pacing.
“She’s fine,” Ilya said from the couch, entirely too relaxed. “You are projecting.”
“She hasn’t texted since 9:41.”
“She is socializing.”
“She could be—”
“—fine,” Ilya finished.
Shane stopped pacing. “Why are you so calm.”
Ilya shrugged. “If she makes mistake, she will learn.”
“That is not comforting.”
At 11:47 p.m., Shane’s phone buzzed.
Both men lunged for it.
Irina: can u come get me
No capitalization.
No punctuation.
No emoji.
Shane’s stomach dropped.
“I’m getting the keys,” he said immediately.
“I will drive,” Ilya replied, already standing.
The house was exactly what Shane had feared.
Too many cars. Too much music. Too many teenagers trying to look older than they were.
They spotted Irina immediately—sitting on the curb at the end of the driveway, heels abandoned beside her, eyeliner slightly smudged, staring at the sky like she was contemplating existential collapse.
She looked up as their car pulled in.
“Oh good,” she said very solemnly.
Shane was out of the car in seconds. “Baby?”
“I’m fine,” she said, which was the least convincing thing she’d ever uttered.
Ilya stepped out, hands in pockets, assessing.
“Have you consumed alcohol,” he asked evenly.
Irina blinked slowly. “Maybe.”
“How much maybe.”
She squinted, thinking hard. “There was a red cup. And then someone refilled it. And then someone said it was punch but it tasted like regret.”
Shane inhaled sharply.
Ilya nodded once. “Ah. Regret punch.”
“I’m not drunk,” she insisted.
She attempted to stand.
Gravity disagreed.
Ilya caught her effortlessly.
Shane’s heart nearly exited his body.
“I’ve got her,” Ilya said calmly, supporting her weight.
Irina leaned against him dramatically. “Everything is wavy.”
“That is because you are intoxicated,” Ilya informed her.
“Stop saying it like that,” Shane snapped. “She’s a child.”
“She is experiencing tequila,” Ilya corrected.
The car ride home was surreal.
Irina pressed her forehead to the window.
“The moon is following us,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Shane said gently. “It’s very committed.”
“I think I told Maya I loved her.”
“Platonic love is valid,” Shane said quickly.
Ilya glanced in the rearview mirror. “Did anyone pressure you.”
Irina shook her head slowly. “No. I just… didn’t want to be the only one not doing it.”
Shane felt that one land squarely in his chest.
“Peer pressure is dumb,” she muttered.
“Yes,” Ilya agreed calmly. “It is.”
She suddenly gagged.
Ilya accelerated slightly.
The second they were home, Shane shifted into full emergency-parent mode.
Shoes off. Hair pulled back. Trash can positioned. Cold washcloth prepared.
Irina leaned over the sink dramatically. “I feel like I’m dissolving.”
“You are not dissolving,” Shane said soothingly. “You are metabolizing.”
“That’s worse.”
Ilya stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking deeply fascinated.
“You will not die,” he said helpfully.
“Please stop narrating,” Shane hissed.
Irina groaned. “Why is the bathroom so bright.”
“Because you made choices,” Ilya replied.
Shane glared at him so hard it should’ve counted as a penalty.
By 2:38 a.m., the worst had passed.
Irina was sprawled across her bed fully clothed, clutching a water bottle like a flotation device.
Shane tucked a blanket around her carefully.
“You’re not mad?” she mumbled.
“No,” he said softly. “I’m worried.”
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for being human.”
Ilya lingered in the doorway, studying her.
“You called us,” he said quietly.
She nodded weakly.
“That is good decision.”
She gave him a faint smile before drifting off.
The next morning began with a sound Shane would later describe as “the death rattle of teenage consequences.”
A groan.
Then another.
Then, “Oh no.”
Shane was already halfway down the hall.
Irina lay face-down, sunglasses on indoors, one arm flung dramatically over her head.
“Make it stop,” she croaked.
Shane knelt beside her. “Headache?”
“Yes.”
“Nausea?”
“Yes.”
“Regret?”
“…Yes.”
Ilya appeared behind him, infuriatingly refreshed.
“Good morning,” he said brightly.
Irina squinted at him. “Why are you so loud.”
“I am not loud.”
“You’re glowing.”
“I hydrated yesterday.”
She whimpered.
Shane handed her water and ibuprofen. “Small sips.”
“I’m never drinking again,” she muttered.
Ilya snorted.
“Do not snort at her,” Shane snapped.
“She is learning.”
“She is suffering.”
“Learning requires suffering.”
Irina pulled the blanket over her head. “I hate this house.”
“You love this house,” Shane corrected gently.
“Not today.”
“That’s fine.”
She shuffled to the couch eventually, wrapped in blankets like a Victorian invalid.
Shane hovered with toast, ginger ale, electrolytes, and maternal anxiety.
“Did you eat before you drank?” he asked gently.
“…No.”
Ilya nodded. “Tactical error.”
“Stop calling it tactical,” Shane said.
Irina groaned. “Everything hurts.”
“Your body is dehydrated,” Ilya explained calmly. “Alcohol suppresses—”
“Not a TED Talk,” Shane interrupted.
Irina peeked over her sunglasses. “Why are you enjoying this.”
Ilya’s lips twitched. “Because it is predictable.”
Shane stared at him. “You are impossible.”
“I am experienced.”
Irina blinked slowly. “You got drunk?”
Shane laughed. “Oh honey.”
Ilya lifted a shoulder. “Once or twice.”
“Define once or twice,” Shane muttered.
As the day wore on, the humor faded slightly.
Irina grew quieter.
Less dramatic.
More thoughtful.
She curled up between them on the couch, head against Shane’s shoulder, feet tucked under Ilya’s leg.
“I didn’t like how it felt,” she admitted softly.
Shane brushed her hair back. “Then you don’t have to do it again.”
“It wasn’t even fun,” she said. “It was loud and everyone was pretending.”
Ilya nodded slowly. “That is many parties.”
She hesitated.
“There was this one guy,” she added. “He kept trying to get people to take shots. He was being… pushy.”
Shane’s entire posture changed.
“Did he push you.”
“No,” she said quickly. “I just left.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened slightly.
“You left,” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
He nodded once. “Good.”
Shane squeezed her hand. “Always trust that feeling.”
She looked between them.
“I’m not grounded?”
Shane blinked. “For calling us?”
“For drinking.”
Ilya considered carefully.
“You are uncomfortable,” he said finally. “You are embarrassed. You feel terrible.”
“Yes.”
“Those are natural consequences.”
Shane looked at him, surprised.
“You’re not mad?” she asked.
“I am… amused,” Ilya admitted. “But not mad.”
She stared at him.
“You’re weird.”
“Yes.”
By late afternoon, she was upright and functional again.
Pale. Dramatic. Humbled.
Shane made soup.
Ilya sat across from her at the table.
“Next time,” Ilya began calmly, “eat first.”
Shane choked on his spoon. “Next time?”
Irina blinked. “There’s going to be a next time?”
“You are a teenager,” Ilya said simply. “Statistically yes.”
Shane looked personally betrayed.
Irina tilted her head. “You’re not forbidding me?”
“If I forbid, you will sneak,” Ilya said. “Better you learn safely.”
Shane stared at him like he’d just switched teams.
Irina smiled faintly. “You’re not as scary as you think.”
Ilya smirked. “I am exactly as scary as I intend.”
That night, as she headed to bed—clear-eyed and very hydrated—she paused in the hallway.
“Thanks,” she said awkwardly.
“For what,” Shane asked.
“For not freaking out.”
Shane softened immediately. “We trust you.”
She nodded once.
Then looked at Ilya.
“I’m glad you came,” she said quietly.
He held her gaze.
“Always,” he replied.
After she disappeared into her room, Shane leaned into Ilya’s side.
“You laughed at her.”
“A little.”
“She’s still my baby.”
“She is sixteen.”
“She had glitter on her face.”
“She was philosophical about the moon.”
Shane sighed.
Ilya wrapped an arm around him.
“She called us,” he said again.
“That’s what matters.”
They stood there in the quiet cottage, lake calm outside the glass walls, teenage chaos temporarily settled.
“She’s going to do more dumb things,” Shane muttered.
“Yes.”
“She’s going to break rules.”
“Yes.”
“She’s going to grow up.”
Ilya was quiet for a moment.
“Yes.”
Shane looked at him.
“You really weren’t mad.”
Ilya shrugged slightly.
“I would rather she experiment and call us,” he said. “Than hide and suffer alone.”
Shane smiled softly.
“You’re a good dad.”
“I am adequate.”
“You’re very good.”
Ilya leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple.
“She is strong,” he murmured. “She will be fine.”
From down the hall came a faint voice:
“Can someone bring me more water?”
Shane laughed immediately and headed toward the kitchen.
Ilya followed, still faintly amused.
Because no matter how old she got, no matter how dramatic the night, no matter how many red cups and regret punches the world threw at her—
She would always call them.
And they would always come.