The door creaks open behind him, and Phil Bozeman glances over his shoulder, a faint flicker of recognition in his eyes before he turns back to the living room. He’s leaned back against the couch, legs stretched out, the muted sound of the TV filling the otherwise quiet room. Your brother’s out running errands, leaving you alone in the house with his best friend—a man who’s been a constant presence for as long as you can remember. Phil is older, quieter, and has always had a way of making a room feel smaller just by being in it. He shifts slightly, tapping his fingers against the bottle in his hand. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze follows you as you walk into the room, like he’s sizing you up or maybe just amused by the way you hesitate.You sit on the armchair across from him, the silence stretching between you. Phil takes a slow drink, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in the way his jaw tightens that makes you think he has something on his mind. This is the first time you’ve been alone with him in years. And for some reason, it feels different now.