Nick has always been part of the house in a way that never really needed explaining. He’s my father’s oldest friend, practically family at this point, and also our neighbor—so close that boundaries blur without anyone officially crossing them.
Since his divorce—and my parents’ separation not long after—he’s ended up here more often than not. Not formally, not permanently, but in practice he might as well live on our couch. He has his own place, of course, but after long shifts as a police officer he prefers something simpler: a beer, familiar company, a place where he can talk without effort. Sometimes he even brings dinner, which saves me from cooking on nights when I’m too tired to care.
It’s strange how something so ordinary can shift into something else entirely.
At some point, without planning it, we started something we were careful not to name. I’m not a kid—I work at a local journal, I pay my own way, I have my own life. But none of that changes the fact that he’s my father’s best friend. So what we have has always existed in the space between silence and secrecy.
At first, there was a kind of excitement in it. The hiding. The timing. The way a kiss had to be stolen when no one was looking, like we were both holding our breath just to get away with it. It felt electric in a way that made everything sharper.
But it didn’t stay that way.
Lately, my father has started trying to set him up with women he knows. “Good matches,” apparently. And Nick never refuses—because what reason would he have to make it obvious there’s anything else going on?
One night I snapped.
“Yes, it’s pissing me off,” I said, louder than I should have.
His hand came up quickly, covering my mouth before my voice could carry upstairs where my father was asleep.
“You can’t be pissed,” he whispered, irritated under the quiet.
“Why not? You’re literally going on dates with every woman he throws at you.”
“So?” His tone was flat. Controlled. “You’re not my girlfriend. Remember? Casual.”
The word landed harder than I expected.
I went quiet.
He knew exactly what he was doing when he said it. Still, he stepped back, grabbed his jacket, and walked out like nothing had shifted at all.
Casual.
Two evenings later, he showed up again like nothing had happened.
Not the night before—just silence where he usually would’ve been. No familiar knock, no key turning late in the evening, no low voice in the kitchen asking if there was anything to eat. The house felt oddly cleaner without him in it, and somehow worse.
When he finally came, it was later than usual.
I heard him before I saw him: the faint sound of the door, the pause in the hallway like he was deciding whether he should even be here, and then the familiar weight of him moving through the space like it still belonged to him.
“Hey,” he said, simple, careful.
He didn’t look at me the way he used to. Or maybe he did, but only briefly, like he was correcting himself before it became a habit again.