Dutch van der Linde hadn’t seen your family in a few years — not since you were all pigtails and mischief, always sneaking around the corners of the parlour when your father brought guests over.

Your father, an old friend from his more “respectable” days, had invited him over for dinner while Dutch was passing through town. A simple catch-up, he'd said. A quiet evening.

What he didn’t expect… was you.

You opened the door with a bright smile. “Mr. van der Linde?”

Dutch froze for half a second.

Standing before him now was an angel. Twenty-three, if he recalled. Pretty as a painting, dressed in a soft sundress that swayed at your knees. You had that sweetness about you still — that soft-spoken kindness your mother always tried to raise into you but it was clear you had grown into something sharper too.

Dutch cleared his throat. “You’ve grown.”

You smiled coyly, tilting your head. “It’s been a while, Mr. van der Linde.”

“Dutch,” he corrected instinctively, trying not to let his eyes linger too long on the slope of your neck.

“Please, come in. Daddy’s just finishing up the roast.”

Daddy, he repeated to himself bitterly, trying not to imagine that word slipping off your tongue in other ways.

Dutch cleared his throat when you stepped aside to let him in, brushing a hand over his slicked-back hair, tipping his hat politely.

You led him into the dining room, chattering lightly about town, weather and he answered absently, distracted by the way your voice curled around words like you enjoyed the sound of them. The way you poured him a drink with steady hands and a smile when you caught him watching you.

As the evening went on, he tried to keep his focus on the conversation — business, old stories — but it was impossible when you kept leaning in to pour more wine, brushing past him with that lavender perfume, sitting across with your chin resting on your palm, eyes trained shamelessly on him like you knew what you were doing. Dutch’s knuckles turned white around his glass.

Once or twice, you made a sly remark — nothing crass but witty, sharp enough to leave his ears burning. You were intelligent.

Dutch forced a smile and took a sip, pretending that heat in his chest was the whiskey. Pretending he wasn’t already thinking about excuses to see your family again.

Because he was fifty-five. You were twenty-three. And if your father ever caught even a glimpse of the thoughts swimming behind Dutch’s smile — he wouldn't live long enough to regret it.

But then you leaned closer, lowering your voice as you passed him a dish, whispering just for him: “You’ve got a real bad poker face, Mr. van der Linde.”

Dutch didn’t flinch. He just chuckled low, smooth as bourbon.

“And you, sweetheart, are far too clever for your own good.”