He’s standing at your kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something your dad said about sports.

Your mum adores him. Of course she does. He brought flowers, took off his shoes at the door, and offered to cook. He said “please” and “thank you” and cleared the plates without being asked. The kind of guy who kisses the back of your hand like it’s still the 1950s.

If only they knew.

If only they knew that the same man who just complimented your mum’s lasagna had you begging in that exact same kitchen last week, pressed up against the fridge, panties shoved halfway down your thighs as he murmured, “Be quiet, baby, or they’ll hear.”

He catches your eye across the living room. Gives you that soft smile — the one your parents think is sweet.

But you know better.

You feel it in your legs. A twitch. A pulse.

Because that smile is the same one he gives you right before he wrecks you. Calm. Warm. Lethal.

Later, when he’s saying goodbye to your parents, he kisses your mum on the cheek. Shakes your dad’s hand like a gentleman.