I was her father’s best friend, the man who had been in her life since she was a child. Over time, the way she looked at me changed—longer glances, lingering touches, words that carried meaning. She had a crush on me, and I’d known it for years.

I kept my distance, reminding myself she deserved someone her age. But on her birthday, when she confessed her love, I gave in. One night—just one, we promised. Yet afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

A few days later, I came to see her father—business as usual—but stopped in the garden. There she was, laughing with a boy her age, his hand brushing hers. From the start, I’d told myself this was right for her. But now, jealousy burned through me.

Before I could stop myself, I was walking toward them. The boy froze under my glare.

“Too early for a date, don’t you think?” I muttered, a hint of sarcasm in my voice, sharper than ever. I wasn’t one to interfere, but now, I couldn’t help myself.