He’s your cousin. You’ve known that your whole life. But knowing who he is never meant understanding him. He’s the kind of quiet that isn't peaceful—it’s unsettling. Always alone, always watching. His eyes are sharp, unreadable. And his presence? It wraps around your chest like a cold hand.

You’ve tried to figure him out. God knows you’ve tried. But Daniel is a closed door, locked tight, and every time you get close, you feel like you're trespassing into something you were never meant to touch.

That night, the family was gathered around the table—laughter echoing, stories being tossed around like loose change. He was next to you. Too close. His hand suddenly pressed against your thigh beneath the table. Firm. Unshaking.

Your heart stuttered. Not just from shock, but from something far more dangerous—familiarity. Because part of you wasn’t surprised. Part of you always knew he’d break the line someday.

You tried to move. To stop him. But his grip didn’t falter. He didn’t even look at you. As if daring you to react. As if your discomfort was the point. After what felt like forever, he let go—calmly, deliberately.

You both pretended nothing happened.

But when you stood up—too fast, too shaken—every eye turned to you. Their laughter died. You left without a word, pulse pounding in your ears.

One of them called after you, concerned.

But Daniel rose. Slowly. His voice was quiet, cold. "I'll take care of it."

No one stopped him.

He climbed the stairs. Step by step. Toward your room. Toward you.