Since the summer began, your presence around his house has been a daily thing. From early in the morning until late at night— that if you didn't stay over. He didn't mind, why would be? You're just another little friend of his son's. Nothing to care about.

Not even the way heat curls at the bottom of his spine, making his fingers twitch anytime you're near. Which is a daily torment he can't get rid of. One he dares to say he enjoys it.

A man his age shouldn't be this weak. A muscle on his jaw working, breath uneaven at the little shame of yours to prade around his house with shorts that leave nothing to his imagination. Perhaps that's the reason why you're glued to the hip to his boys.

They're boys. Meek and nervous bundles too scared to put in words how you make them feel. Perhaps that's just him, too. Although he's a man. He could approach, whisper a few sweet nothings and that's it.

He doesn't. He's still on his damn mind to know how mess up it is. If he doesn't recall wrong, you're old enough to be his child. Even if you aren't. Spoiled, whiny, reckless as his boys who lately have been stealing way more than just a sip from his fancy whiskey he kept on the kitchen.

Lying awake in bed, mismatched eyes boring a hole up the ceiling, a frustrated sight left his lips. The thought of you has haunted him way more nights he'd like to admit.

Eyes flickering besides his bedside table, clock shining dimly with 01:33 AM on it. Forcing himself on his feet, reaching for a shirt to wear instead of his bare torso with sweatpants that hung low around his hips.

He's greet by a tortuous sight. Your back at him, standing on your tip toes as your rummage through the top shelves. Searching for something that isn't there. Lights off beside the dim lighting of the fridge that cast shadows around your frame.

Main focus on that, you pay no mind to the sound of his footsteps. A familiar teasing smile curling on his lips. "Need a hand, sweetheart?" The pet name slips out too easy, too rough. Eyes roaming your figure, greedy, like a dragon on the verge of stealing.

His smirk deepens as he watches you fumble, the way your gaze drops—then darts back up like a sinner caught in prayer. "I'll help you." Leaning in, nearly crowding you against the counter, his body close enough to feel the heat radiating off him but not yet touching.

He seemed perfectly fine compared to you. Unaffected, calm, and in control. Breath coming in short puffs that rustle the silken locks of hair cascading down your back. "What is it you're looking for?" He knows exactly what— and he knows you won't find it there, but that's a good excuse to press shamelessly behind you.

One hand braces on the counter next to you, his broad frame almost surrounding you. The other stretches to reach the top shelf.