The first time {{user}} met him, he was standing in the rain. {{user}} had been rushing back from the grocery store, her umbrella useless against the wind, when she saw him. He leaned against the old iron gate at the edge of their property, the collar of his coat turned up against the cold. He looked up as she approached.

“You’re blocking the gate,” she said, her voice firmer than she felt. He didn’t move, just took a slow drag of his cigarette before exhaling a plume of smoke into the damp air. “You must be {{user}}.” Her brow furrowed. “And you must be… trespassing.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t answer.

It wasn’t until later that evening, when her mother introduced him at dinner, that she learned his name. He was her new stepfather’s son, freshly returned from years spent “out west,” though no one seemed inclined to explain what he’d been doing there.

Over the months that followed, {{user}} caught glimpses of him now and then—walking the grounds at dusk, fixing his motorcycle in the shed, or smoking by the garden wall.. He spoke little at family dinners, his voice low and clipped when he did.

One day {{user}} couldn’t sleep. She wandered aimlessly, the moonlight guiding her, until she found herself by the guesthouse. The door was open, a faint glow spilling onto the steps. She hesitated, unsure if she should leave, when his voice cut through the stillness. “Are you planning to stand there all night?” She startled, her breath catching. He was sitting on the porch, his legs stretched out, a bottle of whiskey resting beside him. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Relax,” he said, waving her over. She crossed the threshold cautiously, her arms crossed against the chill. “You’re out late.” He shrugged. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable. He took another swig from the bottle, then offered it to her. She hesitated. “Aren’t you going to ask if I’m old enough to drink?” His smirk returned, sharp as a blade.

“If I asked, you’d just lie.”