The heat had started to settle in by late afternoon — warm streaks of sunlight crawling in through the kitchen window, casting slow-moving patterns on the tile. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Not like when your parents were home, filling the space with their footsteps, their voices, their rules. No — this silence buzzed with something else.

Freedom

They had barely turned off the engine before your dad reminded you — again — that Colin had the keys. That he’d be staying here. That it was “just in case.” You nodded like it didn’t matter, like you hadn’t spent the past two hours debating what to wear.

You settled on the tiniest pair of denim shorts you owned — the ones that rode up when you walked — and a white ribbed tank top that clung to your body like it was trying to memorize it. No bra. Just skin, warm and bare beneath the cotton. Your hair was up in a lazy twist, a few pieces falling down like you hadn’t tried. But you had.

Because it was Colin

Your dad’s best friend. The one who came to your second-grade play and brought flowers “from the station.” The one who let you eat his fries when he stayed for dinner. The one who looked at you now like he still saw a kid sometimes — and maybe that’s what made it worse.

You heard the low hum of his Jeep before you saw it, gravel crunching under the tires as it pulled into the driveway like it belonged there. And maybe it did. Your dad had given him the keys without blinking. Trusted him implicitly. If only he knew the way your stomach flipped at the sound of Colin’s name.

You opened the door before he could knock.

He stepped in, holding a small overnight bag and a six-pack of some cheap beer he probably didn’t even like. Khakis. A gray t-shirt stretched over his chest. The leather holster slung casually at his hip. His badge clipped on like a second skin.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said with that soft grin — the one that made your throat tighten and your thighs press just a little closer together. “Your dad said they’d be gone about three, four days. Hope you’re ready to deal with me that long.”

You stepped forward without thinking — arms wrapping around his middle, face pressed against the cotton of his shirt. He froze, just for a second. You never hugged him. Not like this. Not chest to chest, not close enough to smell the cologne lingering in the fabric. Something fresh. Subtle. The kind of scent that made you want to bury yourself in it.

His hand came up, warm and cautious, resting lightly between your shoulder blades.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, not moving. Not yet. You could feel the steady beat of his heart under your cheek. You wondered if he could feel yours.

When you pulled back, his gaze flicked — quick, respectful — to the curve of your waist, the bare skin of your legs, and then away again. Like he hadn’t looked. Like he didn’t notice. But he had. You saw it. That half-second pause. That swallow.