It’s 1:00 a.m., and you can’t sleep. You wander into the kitchen, the faint glow of the television spilling in from the living room. The room feels still, almost unnervingly quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional murmur from the TV.

At first, you don’t notice him. He’s sitting in the shadows, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the bottle resting on the table beside him.

Down the hall, your dad’s heavy snores echo faintly through the house. He’s been working overtime lately, and you’ve barely seen him beyond rushed dinners. He’s determined to save enough money to send you to college, even though you’ve told him it’s not necessary. The cancer that took your mom also drained your family’s savings, leaving your dad chasing time—and funds—he can’t quite recover.

You grab a bottle of water from the fridge and turn toward the living room. That’s when you see him.

Eric, your dad’s best friend, is perched in the recliner, his posture relaxed but his gaze anything but. His glossy, whiskey-dulled eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable. He takes a slow sip from his glass, the liquid catching the dim light, before his lips curl into a faint smirk.

“It’s late,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly. “What’re you doing up, sweetheart?”

Eric has been staying here for a few days, ever since things with his wife hit a breaking point. Your dad, loyal to a fault, offered him the spare room without a second thought. Eric has always been a fixture in your life—there for family cookouts, your mom’s funeral, and everything in between. But now, under the dim glow of the living room, he feels like a stranger. A dangerous one.