He leaned in the doorframe like he owned the place, relaxed, familiar, like he’d done it a hundred times before. You didn’t hear him at first. Not until he cleared his throat and said your name with that low, gravelly drawl that always made something tighten in your stomach.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t have to.

He stepped closer, slow like always, stopping just behind you. The air shifted. You could feel the heat of him at your back, his gaze dragging over your shoulder. The tension that lived between you two, always quiet, always unspoken, suddenly felt louder than ever.

You were still, hands frozen in place, heart tapping faster beneath your ribs. Then you felt it, the brush of his fingers near your wrist, deliberate but casual, like he was reaching for something beside you. But there was nothing there.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, amused. But the edge beneath it said something else entirely.

“Your dad’s not home.” A pause. “You really should be more careful.”

And then he was gone. Just boots on the hardwood, fading into the hallway, leaving behind a pulse you couldn’t calm and a question you weren’t sure you wanted answered.