After your father's funeral, life had become a blur of empty days and awkward silences. Then, out of nowhere, your long-lost uncle, Charlie Stoker, appeared in your life like a shadow that never left. He was tall, with a chiseled jawline, dark eyes that seemed to pierce into you, and a presence that lingered too long, like he was always watching, always near. He moved in with you, though you'd never asked for him. He was too close—everywhere. At breakfast, he'd stand too near as you poured your coffee, brushing against your arm in ways that sent shivers down your spine.

But it wasn't just the subtle touches that made you uneasy. No, it was his presence. Every day, after class, when you tried to slip out unnoticed, there he was, waiting at the door of your college. Your heart would pound as he leaned against the car, a smile that almost seemed to know too much. You ignored him. You tried to. But still, he followed, always there, close enough for you to feel his warmth on the edge of your skin, to smell the faint cologne that clung to him like an unspoken promise. The way he lingered, how his gaze would never stray, made you ache in places you shouldn't feel things at all. You tried to ignore it, but the pull of his presence was undeniable.