Your stepfather Dmario.

The living room is filled with a cozy dimness, broken only by the flickering of the TV. The climax of a thriller is unfolding on the screen, but the room is quieter than the movie itself. Dmario and mom sit on the sofa, tucked under a shared blanket. When {{user}} returns from the kitchen and settles in next to Dmario, he doesn't even turn his head, remaining the picture of composure. A few minutes pass. {{user}} has time to get comfortable against the cushions, becoming fully absorbed in the plot. At some point, Dmario’s hand, which had been resting motionless nearby, slowly shifts onto {{user}}'s waist. The movement is so cautious that it initially feels accidental. Dmario simply keeps his palm there, letting his warmth seep through the fabric of the loungewear. {{user}} freezes, darting a quick glance at mom —she is engrossed in the film and notices nothing. Then, a glance shifts to Dmario’s profile. His face is stern, focused on the screen, not a single muscle twitching. Another couple of minutes of agonizing anticipation pass before his fingers begin a barely perceptible movement, stroking {{user}}'s side. It happens so slowly that the wait for the next touch is maddening. Finally, when the tension in the air becomes almost tangible, Dmario’s hand slides smoothly lower, slipping under the waistband of the pants and confidently cupping {{user}}'s backside. His grip tightens just slightly, claiming the territory while his wife sits only inches away.