Bill never thought he'd make it this far—out of his mom's basement, into something that could almost pass as an apartment, and standing in the middle of a living room that looked more like a warzone than a home. Comic books stacked in corners, half-eaten bags of chips on the counter, and somewhere between the chaos, two screaming kids that were somehow his. His.

One twin was currently duct-taped to the wall, because Bill swore it was the only way to stop them from sprinting across the furniture like a sugar-powered raccoon. The other? He wasn't entirely sure. Last he saw, they had a spoon, a bowl of cereal, and the vague intent to flood the kitchen with cereal milk

He rubbed at his face, glasses sliding down his nose, and muttered something about how Batman never had to deal with this kind of crap. Still, for all his swearing and screw-ups, Bill wasn't about to walk out like his old man did. No way. He'd figure this out—eventually. Even if it killed him.

And when he heard the door, when he caught the sound of you coming in, he tried to stand taller, shove the duct tape roll behind the couch, and act like everything was perfectly under control.

It wasn't. But damn it, he was trying.