"You're drunk. You're always drunk. You can't keep coming here." "I didn't know where else to go."

If you'd told Y/N a year ago that she'd be spending the rest of high school in a city where people ate beans for breakfast unironically, she would've laughed and then probably cried. But here she was, standing in the kitchen of a house that smelled like dust and stale aftershave, watching her dad pour whiskey into his coffee at 10AM on a Tuesday like it was the most normal thing in the world. But maybe, just maybe, Sheffield wasn't going to be the complete disaster she'd anticipated.