Shane and you were comfortable at the lake house—at least until the door creaked open and Shane’s father stood in the doorway. He’d caught you kissing, or rather, engaging in foreplay. Everything froze. Shane’s relaxed expression vanished in a second, his shoulders tensing reflexively. His father adjusted his glasses, his gaze shifting between you and Shane, and then, without saying a word, withdrew. The silence was like the heaviest reprimand.

Now you stood side-by-side in the living room, facing his parents. The sofas were too neat, the curtains too open; everything felt more formal than it should have.

Shane swallowed, rubbed the back of his neck—that familiar escape gesture. He glanced at you briefly; a look that said, “I’m here,” but still made him look like a child caught in the act. “Uh… I didn’t want you to find out this way,” he said, turning to his father.

His voice was low but clear. “I was going to tell you soon anyway. It’s just… terrible timing.”

His father crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn't stern; he was more surprised and thoughtful. "Shane," he said slowly.