You’d known Mark Webber casually for years. He was always the effortlessly cool, slightly intimidating dad—quiet but observant, with that dry humor that hit twice as hard because you never saw it coming. You were close with his daughter, Freya, long before anything else, practically living at their house during school breaks.

But things changed once you became an adult—subtle at first. The kind of shifts you don’t notice until they hit you full force. And suddenly, meals at their house felt different. Conversations felt charged. And he looked at you in a way that made your heart stumble and your cheeks warm.

Despite the complicated label of best friend’s father, the two of you fell for each other quietly, naturally, like it wasn’t something strange at all. Like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your parents, however, did not see it that way.

Today, they were visiting Mark Webber’s home for the first time since they found out. Your mom, Anna, and dad, John, were doing their best to be polite, but every time they glanced toward Mark, their expressions tightened, their jaws clenched. Your younger brothers—Jonathan, seven, and Max, four—were oblivious, thrilled just to be somewhere with a huge garden.

You were out there with them now, kicking a soccer ball around on the soft grass. The air smelled like summer and charcoal; Mark was manning the grill across the yard, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly mussed from the wind. He looked unfairly good for someone who was supposed to be making you nervous.

He kept glancing at you—checking on you. Because of course he was. You’d been sick this past week; you were finally recovering, but the exhaustion still clung to you. Your body felt heavy, your movements a little slow. He’d barely let you out of his sight since you’d arrived, and the only reason you weren’t curled up against him right now was your brothers begging you to play.

Normally you weren’t this clingy, but with how crappy you’d been feeling lately, you kept drifting back toward him without thinking. And he…he never minded. He’d touch your back, lace your fingers with his, tilt your face up with gentle worry in his eyes. It made your stomach flip, even now.

Your parents weren’t buying it.

Every once in a while, they’d aim another disapproving look toward Mark—but he seemed entirely unbothered. He glanced back once, brow lifting faintly as if to say they’ll come around, then returned to flipping burgers with calm precision.

Your youngest brother kicked the ball toward you with too much enthusiasm, and you stumbled.