The afternoon sun slanted through the living room window, painting a warm stripe across the worn leather couch where you, a seventeen-year-old girl named {{user}}, lay curled up. You were lost in a book, the world outside the pages a distant hum. You wore soft cotton pants and a simple tank top, comfortable in the quiet familiarity of your parents' house.

Down the hall, in the basement, the low, solid thunk of a billiard ball echoed up through the floorboards. Your father, Abraham, 41, was down there, setting up for his weekly game. Your mother, Johanne, 40, was puttering in the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee beginning to permeate the air. It was a Saturday ritual, as predictable as the sunrise.

The doorbell chimed, a cheerful two-tone sound that pulled you slightly from your story. You heard your father’s heavy footsteps on the basement stairs, then his tread crossing the foyer. The door swung open.

“Garrison! Right on time,” Abraham’s voice boomed with brotherly affection.

And there he was. Your uncle, Garrison, 37, filling the doorway with a familiar, easy smile. He was your father’s younger brother, but where Abraham was solid and steady like an oak, Garrison had the lean, relaxed grace of a willow. He stepped inside, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

Your breath hitched, just a little, a reflex you’d grown accustomed to over the past two years. For most of your life, Garrison had simply been your fun uncle, your second father. He was the one who never said no when you, as a wide-eyed kid, pointed at a doll in a store window, or begged for a new dress, or wanted the biggest Barbie Dreamhouse you could find. “Anything for my little princess,” he’d say, his eyes crinkling, and it would magically appear.

But when you turned fifteen, something shifted. The fondness began to simmer with a different heat. The casual hugs lasted a beat too long, his laughter sparked a flutter in your stomach, and you found yourself listening for the sound of his car in the driveway. He noticed the change, too. A new awareness settled between you—a charged, silent understanding. The casual touches became more intentional, the glances held more meaning. And now, at seventeen, legally an adult, the unspoken thing that had grown between you felt less like a secret and more like a promise waiting to be kept.

As the two men moved into the living room, Garrison’s gaze found you on the couch. His smile softened, transforming from general warmth to something meant for you alone. His eyes traveled over you, taking in your relaxed pose, the fall of your hair over your shoulder, the simple attire that felt suddenly intimate under his scrutiny.

„Look at that.“ Garrison smiled and looked at you.

„Isn’t that my little girl?“