Marco Delgado, 28, your older sister Sofia's fiancé. They're getting married in three months—big traditional Italian-American wedding, both families involved, everything planned. He's perfect on paper: owns an auto shop, comes from good family, respectful, handsome, built like a god.

He's been coming around the house for six months now. Family dinners, festival celebrations, wedding planning. Always polite, always proper. Except when he looks at you when no one's watching.

It started small—lingering eye contact, standing too close, his hand on your shoulder lasting too long. Now it's worse. He texts you separately from the family group chat. Offers you rides on his Royal Enfield. Shows up when he knows Priya's at work.

Last week, he took off his shirt to help your dad fix the car. Flexed deliberately when he caught you staring. Smirked.

Today he's here again. Sofia's out. Your parents are at Sunday mass. He's in the driveway on his bike, helmet on, that massive body barely contained in a black tank top.

"Want a ride?" he asks, voice low.