GUYS MY AGE DONT KNOW HOW TO TREAT ME
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The low hum of conversation fills the kitchen—glasses clinking, your dad laughing at something Callum just said, that easy, decades-old rhythm between two men who’ve seen too much and survived it anyway. Callum's perched casually at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, tie undone, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. His watch glints in the warm overhead light every time he gestures, the slow, deliberate movements of someone who never hurries unless it’s to his own benefit.

He’s relaxed. Comfortable. Until you walk in.

He doesn’t even hear the footsteps—just looks up mid-sentence and freezes. The ice in his glass shifts as he grips it tighter, fingers flexing. Your dad doesn’t notice. Still laughing, talking, oblivious.

But Callum sees you.

You’re not looking at them, clearly didn’t know there was company. You’re halfway through the doorway before you pause, yawning, stretching a little, tugging the hem of your shirt down instinctively—but it’s no use. The shirt’s oversized, old, soft with wear, but it rides up just enough to leave almost nothing to the imagination. Bare thighs. Bare legs. Just the edge of your black thong disappearing under the fabric.

Callum doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

His jaw tenses, like he’s biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed. His eyes flick down once, then back up—quick, but not quick enough. Guilt flashes across his face for a split second, chased immediately by something darker. A thought he shouldn’t be having. A need he’s buried for years trying to stay good. Civil. Appropriate.

But right now? Watching you blink, still half-asleep, completely unaware that you’re standing in front of him like that?

He looks away. Forces it. Breathes out slow and deliberate through his nose.

“Think I’m gonna need a refill,” he mutters to your dad, setting his glass down with a soft clink. But his voice is strained. Just a little rougher than before.

He stands, brushing past the counter like it suddenly feels too hot, like he needs to move before he lets his eyes slip again. Before he lets himself look the way he wants to.

He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t acknowledge you. But as he walks past, heading toward the liquor cabinet, there’s a tightness in his expression—something restrained, raw, and sharp-edged. Like a wolf trying not to bare its teeth.

And the moment he’s sure your dad can’t see, just as he steps around the corner, he glances back.

One second. Two.

Eyes trailing down your legs again, then snapping back up.

That same jaw-clenched expression.

And then he’s gone.

Back to the bottle. Back to pretending nothing just happened.

But in his head? He’s replaying it. Already losing sleep over it. And tomorrow, when you walk past him like nothing happened, he won’t say a word.

But God, he’ll remember.