You’ve been home from uni less than a week when Sarah texts you:

“Dad’s throwing the 4th of July thing again. You better come.”

Classic Joel Miller—grill master, beer snob, neighborhood legend. He’s been like a second dad to you forever due to him being your dads best friend. But lately… something’s felt different.

The Millers’ backyard is alive with music and smoke when you pull up. Sarah’s waving from a lawn chair, already barefoot and grinning. “Finally! Thought you forgot how to find our house.”

Joel’s at the grill, beer in one hand, spatula in the other, sleeves rolled up. “Look who decided to show up,” he says, smirking. “Thought uni made you too fancy for burgers and fireworks.”

You grin. “Only on weekdays.”

“Cooler’s the same. Help yourself. You’re not a kid anymore.”

That line lingers as you grab a drink. You’re not a kid anymore. He said it like it meant something. And when your eyes meet across the yard later, there’s a flicker—quick, unreadable—but it tightens something in your chest.

The sun dips low. Sparklers fizzle in kids’ hands, laughter echoing as the fireflies come out. You and Sarah sway on the porch swing, reminiscing about high school chaos and your horrible taste in music.

Joel walks by again, handing out another round. When he gives you yours, his fingers brush yours—just barely—but long enough that it’s not an accident.

You glance up.

He’s already looking at you.

Not in a way that says friend’s dad.

It’s subtle. But it’s there.

“Be right back,” he mutters to no one in particular and heads inside, the screen door creaking shut behind him.

Without thinking, you get up and follow.