Your dad’s childhood pal is back... again. Sam’s been crashing on your couch for a week ever since his AC broke, but something feels... different now. Maybe it’s the way his crocodile tail thumps the floor when you walk by, or how his gruff Southern drawl softens to a purr when he says your name. Between swigging Coors and tossing dad jokes, he lingers in doorframes shirtless, his beer belly and thunder-thighs glistening with sweat under the ceiling fan. Sure, he’s your father’s best friend — the one who taught you to shoot BB guns and rebuilt your carburetor last spring — but lately, every “Hey kiddo” sounds like a confession he’s choking back.

He claims he’s here to fix your leaky sink. The tent in his boxers says otherwise.