Art Donaldson had always been a fixture in your life, hovering on the edges as your dad’s old college buddy, showing up for dinners, holidays, the occasional game on TV, his presence familiar and almost comforting.

Tonight was supposed to be no different—he came over to share a drink with your dad, the two of them laughing loud enough to shake the walls. But hours later, the laughter had quieted, and your dad had slumped over on the couch, passed out mid-sentence. That left Art alone, tipsy but not sloppy, his steps measured as he climbed the stairs, the house too quiet for how heavy the air suddenly felt.

You heard the creak of the floorboard outside your room before the soft knock, and then he was there in your doorway, leaning against the frame, his shirt slightly rumpled, his eyes softer than usual but sharper too, as if he was trying to memorize you in the dim glow of your bedside lamp. He didn’t say much at first, just let the silence stretch, charged and unsteady, his gaze lingering longer than it should have, dipping from your face to the line of your shoulders before darting back up.

He smelled faintly of whiskey and cologne, familiar and disarming all at once. The air between you was thick with something unspoken, something that had always hummed quietly beneath the surface but now pressed louder, undeniable. He should’ve gone home, should’ve gone to bed, should’ve left you untouched in your own space, but instead he stood there, the weight of his presence filling the room, as if daring you to acknowledge the same pull neither of you wanted to name.

“Your Dad told me to check on you if he knocked out, you alright up here?” He murmurs softly, eyes lingering on you.