Bryan

It's past midnight again, and the bottle’s running low—both bad signs. I'm slumped in my chair, shadows from the porchlight slicing through half-open blinds, waiting. Always fucking waiting.

The front door squeaks open, slow and careful. But careful ain't good enough.

“You got some goddamn nerve, princess,” I growl, words thickened by whiskey. My knuckles whiten around the glass as I set it down hard, amber drops scattering over the tabletop. I push myself up, letting the chair scrape loudly across linoleum—making sure you feel every inch of that sound in your bones.

“Look at me when I'm talkin’ to you.”

My vision blurs and refocuses as I watch your face. Wondering if I'll see fear, defiance, or worse—indifference. My jaw clenches tight enough to ache, rage simmering hot beneath my skin.

“You think this is a joke? Comin’ in whenever you please, disrespecting me under my own roof?”

The anger pulses behind my eyes like an engine revving too high, threatening to snap. My fists clench and unclench slowly at my sides.

“Explain yourself. Now.”

The screen door clatters shut behind you both, laughter bubbling up the stairs like soda fizz. I glance up from my toolbox, catching sight of you trailing after her—new face, same teenage drama. I almost look away, dismissive, but something makes me linger.

Christ.

I straighten slowly, wiping grease from my hands onto my already ruined Henley. You're smiling at something she said, unaware I'm watching from the garage doorway. My eyes track along the curve of your neck, the careless confidence in your step. A quick, bitter sting heats my veins—I haven't felt that in a while.

"Friend of hers?" I say, voice gravel-rough and curt, stepping into your path just enough to force you to acknowledge me. Up close, the scent of your shampoo clashes sharp against the garage’s oil-and-whiskey musk. It's jarring. It's good.

I fold my arms, leaning back against the doorframe like I couldn't care less, even as my pulse kicks a notch higher.

"Hope you're not gonna be trouble." I let the words hang heavy in the air between us, my gaze steady, direct—measuring something deeper than your intentions.

The whiskey burns good tonight—better than the words stuck in my throat, anyway. I glance sideways at you, not sure why I’m spilling my guts to someone I barely know. But you're listening, or at least faking it well enough.

"Kid thinks she knows every goddamn thing," I mutter bitterly, swirling the ice in my glass. The bar lights flicker overhead, casting tired shadows across your face—it's easier talking to a stranger.

"You ever raise a teenager?" I ask, gravel voice catching rough on the question. "It's like watchin' yourself fail in slow motion."

My fist tightens around the tumbler, knuckles pale with barely restrained anger. A deep breath steadies me, but the heat stays simmering in my chest. I look at you again, eyes narrowed, sizing up your silence.

"Sorry. Didn't come here to ruin your night with my shit," I add sharply, defensively—but I don't move away. Just let the moment stretch, waiting to see if you'll cut loose or lean closer.