I'm not supposed to be here.
That's the first thought that hits me when I walk into Mara's backyard and see him standing by the grill, beer in hand, looking like every bad decision I've ever wanted to make.
Her dad.
The one she never shuts up about but who I've somehow never actually met because he's been living in Singapore for the past four years. Building hotels or bridges or whatever the fuck rich guys do when they abandon their families for "business opportunities."
Mara's exact words last week: "My dad's finally coming home for my graduation. You'll love him. He's basically a grumpy teddy bear."
Grumpy teddy bear.
Right.
The man I'm looking at right now is six-three, broad-shouldered, wearing a black t-shirt that's doing absolutely obscene things to his arms, and he's got this silver threading through his dark hair that makes my stomach flip in ways I don't have names for yet.
He looks up. Catches me staring.
Fuck.
I should look away. Should smile politely and go find Mara in the crowd of family and friends celebrating her college graduation. Should act like a normal person instead of standing here with my mouth slightly open like I've forgotten how human interaction works.
But I don't look away.
Neither does he.
And something passes between us in that three-second stare that feels illegal. Feels like I just signed a contract in blood without reading the fine print.
"Elena!" Mara's voice breaks the moment. She's bouncing toward me with a champagne flute in each hand, grinning like she's already tipsy. "You made it! Come meet my dad before he disappears to answer work emails or whatever boring shit he does."
She grabs my wrist. Drags me across the lawn.
And I'm trying to remember how to breathe. How to be normal. How to not look at him like I'm mentally undressing him in front of forty people including his daughter who's my best friend and also the reason I'm here.
"Dad!" Mara shouts when we reach him. "This is Elena. The one I've been telling you about. We've been roommates since sophomore year."
He extends his hand. "Kane."
Not "nice to meet you." Not "I've heard so much about you."
Just his name. Low. Rough. Like he's used to people already knowing who he is.
I take his hand. His grip is firm. Warm. Callused in a way that doesn't match the expensive watch on his wrist.
"Elena," I manage. My voice sounds weird. Too high. "Congratulations on... having a daughter who graduated?"
Oh my God. Kill me now.
But he smiles. Just barely. Corner of his mouth twitching like he's trying not to laugh at how awkward I am.
"Thanks," he says. Hasn't let go of my hand yet. "Mara mentioned you're graduating too. Communications, right?"
"Marketing. But yeah. Same ceremony."
"Smart."
One word. But the way he says it, looking directly at me, still holding my hand, makes it feel like a compliment and a challenge at the same time.
Mara rolls her eyes. "Okay Dad, stop being weird. Elena, come help me with the food. Dad, stop interrogating my friends."
She pulls me away before I can say anything else.
And as we walk toward the house I glance back over my shoulder.
He's watching me.
Still watching.
And I know; I fucking know—I'm in trouble.
The party goes on for hours.
I try to be normal. Try to focus on Mara and her aunt who won't stop asking about my "future plans" and whether I have a boyfriend and when am I planning to settle down because twenty-two is "such a perfect age."
But I keep finding him in the crowd.
Kane.
He's always on the periphery. Talking to some uncle. Refilling someone's drink. Standing alone by the fence with his phone, frowning at whatever email just came through.
And every time I look at him I get this feeling in my chest. Like falling. Like standing at the edge of something high and knowing you shouldn't jump but wanting to anyway.
It's stupid.
He's Mara's dad. Forty-something. Probably has a girlfriend or three in Singapore. Probably thinks I'm some silly college kid who can't even introduce herself without sounding like an idiot.
But then he looks at me again.
Across the yard. Over someone's shoulder during a conversation.
And it's not a dad look. It's not polite or friendly or dismissive.
It's hungry.
Fuck.
"You okay?" Mara asks. We're sitting on the porch steps now, sharing a bottle of wine we stole from the kitchen. The party's winding down. People leaving. Hugs and goodbyes and promises to "do this again soon."
"Yeah. Just tired. Long week."
"Tell me about it." She leans her head on my shoulder. "I can't believe we're actually done. No more exams. No more professors who grade on curves. We're real adults now."
"Terrifying."
"Right?" She laughs. Takes a long sip of wine. "Hey. Random question. What do you think of my dad?"
My heart stops.
"What?"
"My dad. I know he's kind of intense but he's actually really sweet once you get to know him. I just wondered what your first impression was."
I try to keep my voice casual. "He seems... nice. Grumpy teddy bear, like you said."
"Liar. You think he's hot."
"I do not"
"Elena. I saw you staring at him by the grill. Don't even try to deny it." She's grinning. Doesn't seem mad. Just amused. "It's fine. Everyone thinks he's hot. My friends in high school used to call him a DILF before I even knew what that meant."
"Mara—"
"I'm just saying. You have eyes. He's objectively attractive for an old guy. But also he's my dad so can we please never talk about this again because I'm going to need therapy."
She's laughing but I feel sick.
Because she's joking. Treating it like a harmless observation.
And I'm sitting here with my stomach in knots thinking about his hands. His voice. The way he said my name.
"Never speaking of it again," I agree. "Promise."
"Good. Now help me kick these people out so we can get drunk and watch bad reality TV."
By midnight everyone's gone except me.
Mara passed out on the couch around eleven—too much champagne, not enough food, and I covered her with a blanket and started cleaning up.
I don't know why I stayed. Should've called an Uber. Gone home to my own apartment.
But I'm here. In Kane's kitchen. Loading his dishwasher with plates that still smell like barbecue.
"You don't have to do that."
I jump. Spin around.
He's standing in the doorway. Changed out of the t-shirt into a plain white button-down, sleeves rolled up. Barefoot. Hair slightly damp like he just showered.
And I'm suddenly very aware that I'm alone with him. That Mara's unconscious in the next room. That it's late and quiet and there's no one to interrupt whatever this moment is becoming.
"I don't mind," I say. "It's the least I can do. Great party."
"Mara planned most of it." He moves further into the kitchen. Leans against the counter. Too close but not close enough. "But thanks."
Silence.
The dishwasher hums. The fridge clicks on.
And we're just looking at each other.
"I should go," I say. Don't move.
"Probably."
Still doesn't move either.
"Kane—"
"How old are you, Elena?"
The question catches me off guard. "Twenty-two. Why?"
"Just making sure." His jaw tightens. Like he's working something out in his head. "You're Mara's age."
"Yeah. We're three months apart."
"Right." He runs a hand through his hair. Looks away. "You should go."
But the way he says it doesn't sound like he wants me to leave.
Sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
"Okay," I whisper.
I grab my purse from the counter. Walk toward the door.
I'm almost past him when he speaks again.
"Elena."
I stop. Turn.
And he's right there. Closer than before. Close enough I can smell whatever soap he uses. Something clean. Cedar and citrus.
"You can't look at me like that," he says quietly.
"Like what?"
"You know exactly like what."
My breath catches. "I don't know what you mean."
"Liar."
The word is soft. Almost gentle. But it lands like a dare.
And I don't know who moves first. Don't know if I lean in or if he does or if we both just stop fighting gravity.
But suddenly his hand is on my waist. Warm. Steady. Holding me in place.
And I'm looking up at him—he's so much taller than me, I have to tilt my head back—and his eyes are dark. Conflicted.
Hungry.
"This is a bad idea," he says.
"I know."
"You're Mara's best friend."
"I know."
"I'm too old for you."
"I don't care."
His grip tightens. Just slightly. Testing. "You should."
"But I don't."
For a second I think he's going to kiss me. Think he's going to close the distance and make this decision for both of us.
But he doesn't.
He lets go. Steps back.
And the loss of his touch feels like falling.
"Go home, Elena," he says. Rough. Almost angry. "Before I do something we'll both regret."
I should listen. Should leave. Should pretend this moment never happened.
Instead I hear myself say: "What if I don't want to go home?"
His eyes flash. Something dangerous. Something barely controlled.
"Don't," he warns.
"Don't what?"
"Don't push me. You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then tell me."
Silence.
He's staring at me like I'm a problem he can't solve. Like I'm a test he's failing.
Then he reaches into his pocket. Pulls out his phone. Opens it. Pulls up a new contact screen and hands it to me.
"Put your number in."
My hands shake as I type. As I hand it back.
"I'm not going to text you," he says.
"Okay."
"I mean it, Elena. This—whatever this is—it's not happening."
"Okay."
But we both know he's lying.
I leave.
Walk out the front door. Call an Uber. Wait on the porch in the cool night air.
My phone buzzes before the car even arrives.
Unknown number: You made it home safe?
I stare at the screen. Heart pounding.
He said he wasn't going to text me.
Lasted less than five minutes.
Not home yet. Still waiting for my ride.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Let me know when you get there.
Why?
Because I need to know you're safe.
Something warm spreads through my chest. Dangerous. Addictive.
Okay.
The Uber pulls up. I get in. Spend the entire twenty-minute ride staring at my phone.
When I get home I text him: Home safe.
His reply is immediate: Good. Now delete my number.
No.
Elena.
Make me.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Don't come back.
I wait.
Nothing.
I'm about to give up—accept that he's actually going to be strong, going to resist this—when my phone buzzes again.
You're playing a dangerous game, baby girl.
Baby girl.
Oh God.
My entire body reacts. Heat flooding between my thighs. Breath catching.
Maybe I like danger.
You don't know what you're talking about.
Then teach me.
Long pause.
Then: Go to bed. We're not doing this.
You texted me first.
Mistake.
Was it though?
No response.
I wait five minutes. Ten.
Finally I type: Goodnight, Kane.
His response comes an hour later. After I've showered. After I've gotten into bed. After I've touched myself thinking about his hand on my waist and his voice calling me baby girl.
Goodnight, Elena. Sweet dreams.
And I know—I fucking know, neither of us is going to sleep tonight.