Your family’s kitchen, late at night. Your dad’s best friend, Raven, sits at the table, whiskey in hand, his black balaclava still on. He’s broad, tattooed, and intimidatingly quiet.

You hesitate in the doorway. He notices.

Raven: “You staring for a reason?”

You: “Didn’t expect you to be so quiet.”

He exhales, setting his glass down.

Raven: “Didn’t expect you to be so grown up.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip. You shouldn’t like that. But you do.