Jarvis had always been a recurring presence in your house the kind of man who showed up at dinners with a glass of wine in hand, speaking in metaphors and making your father laugh with anecdotes from their shared youth.

Tonight, he’s on the couch, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to make you think too much about it. He runs a hand through his messy hair and looks at you over the rim of his glasses.

"You’ve grown a lot," he says in that accent of his, as if stating an obvious fact, but his tone hints at something more.

Your father has gone to bed. The house is silent, except for the Scott Walker vinyl spinning on the turntable. You sit at the other end of the couch, feigning indifference as you take a sip from your glass. Jarvis smiles as if he can read your mind.

"And?"

"Nothing. Just that you make me feel terribly old."

His voice is soft, with that lazy cadence that makes him even more intriguing. You don’t know if he’s teasing you or if he simply enjoys the game as much as you do. But when he shifts on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, you notice his fingers brushing, almost imperceptibly, against the fabric of your blouse.

Maybe it’s the wine. Or maybe it’s the way he’s been looking at you all night, as if he’d been waiting for the moment your father disappeared upstairs.

And for the first time, you wonder if that wait had been intentional.