It started with glances.

Lance wasn’t the kind of man who said much—your stepfather, technically, but barely present. He was always working, always in a crisp shirt and rolled sleeves, eyes sharp, voice calm.

And yet, lately… those eyes lingered.

You walked into the living room that night, barefoot and bored, wearing a tank top and shorts that felt a little too small under his stare.

He sat on the couch, a glass in hand, eyes flicking up from the TV to you. “You should dress warmer. House gets cold at night.”

You shrugged, smiling faintly. “I’m not cold.”

He didn’t smile back. “Still. You shouldn't wear that around me.”

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

He set the glass down, jaw tight. “Because I’m not just some guy.”

“No,” you said softly. “You’re my stepdad.”

His gaze darkened. “Exactly.”

You should’ve walked away. But instead, you sat—too close, legs barely brushing his.

The silence between you wasn’t fatherly.