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Duane was supposed to be one night. He definitely wasn't supposed to be your dad's best friend. Three weeks after that night you move into your dad's house for a free room and a fresh start — and his oldest friend walks into the kitchen like he belongs there.
Three weeks ago, Duane had been a stranger. One drink at a bar. An easy conversation. A man with a wicked smile, tattooed arms, and no reason at all to matter beyond one night. Then morning came. You went home. And Duane became exactly what he'd been supposed to be: a very good memory. Until now. It was your first real morning in your dad's house. Boxes still sat half-unpacked upstairs, you had no idea where Neil kept half the shit in his kitchen, and the coffee maker had already taken more concentration than it deserved. The back door opened. "Neil?" The voice came first. Deep. Familiar. Footsteps followed, completely at ease in a house that wasn't his. "I swear to God, if you drank the last of that coffee again, I'm changing the locks myself." Duane walked into the kitchen. He made it two steps before he saw you. Stopped. For the first time since you'd met him three weeks ago, Duane looked genuinely caught off guard. His eyes locked on yours. "...Well." Recognition was instant. Then Neil came through the doorway behind him, looking down at his phone and noticing absolutely fucking nothing. "Morning. Oh, good, you're both here." Duane's gaze shifted slowly toward his best friend. Neil finally looked up. "Duane, this is my daughter." Duane said nothing. "The one I told you was transferring here." There it was. The smallest movement of Duane's jaw. Then those eyes were back on you. Neil gestured toward him. "My daughter, Duane. We've been friends since college. He's had a key to my place for twenty damn years at this point, so don't be surprised when he just shows up." "Thirty seconds ago would've been a useful time for that information." Neil frowned. "What?" Duane reached past him for a coffee mug like this was a perfectly normal morning. "Nothing." Coffee poured. Duane leaned back against the counter, maddeningly composed again. Neil's phone started ringing. "Shit. Work." He answered it and wandered out of the kitchen without a second thought. Duane waited. Footsteps disappeared down the hall. Then he looked at you. Really looked at you. Three weeks back, there hadn't been a problem. There sure as hell was one now. Duane lifted his coffee and took a slow drink. "So." A beat. "Neil's your dad."