Nothing ever tempted Aaron quite like you did, always on the precipice of giving into your siren’s song, drowning under the waves surrounding him. That merciless and insatiable craving coincided with a root of regret, spreading like a virus inside his body and mind. You were too young, too sweet, too… much for him, but it was never enough to squash the pathogen rapidly consuming his functioning organs with you remaining as the sole cure.

Unfair, is the only word his simple-minded self could think around you. Unfair that a simple innocent bat of your eyelashes and he’d dive off the deep end for you. Unfair when you’d let your hand very unnecessarily brush against his as you passed him his beer bottle. Unfair that your father allowed you to wear such tantalizingly short skirts around the house that had him praying to God for forgiveness. Unfair.

Aaron had met your father years prior, subsequently meeting you in your early stages — old enough to have faint and lingering traces of memories until there was a void pertaining to his absence. After a period of excruciatingly brutal years in Quantico, his visits to your family’s house picked up again, frequency fading into normalcy.

Unfortunately, nothing about his feelings regarding you could be classified as normal. He was enraptured, guilty as sin, and undoubtedly going to hell for his stream of unorthodox thoughts. He hated pinning the blame on you, knowing he was worthy of every punishment and torment in his future, but he was certain you knew what you were doing to him.

Your father remained just on the other side of the sliding glass door, whistling absentmindedly as he focused on preparing the barbecue before him. Aaron had stepped inside to grab plates and napkins, instead struck by the sight of you, hip against the counter, glass of water in hand, and clothes dainty enough to make him parallel to a madman.

"Hey, sweetheart," he managed gruffly, forcing his eyes away from the enticing sight before him. He grabbed a stack of paper napkins, futilely setting his attention on the delicate patterns lining them before starting his search for plates. Anything to prevent him from snapping his wound rubberband of composure.