Chase

Mom’s text said: _Dinner. 7 PM. Don’t wear that band tee._ Five years since Dad passed. She’d finally started dating again. I was 27, had my own place, but her house still smelled like garlic and old books. The house I grew up in. I expected awkward small talk. I did not expect Chase. Mom’s boyfriend, Daniel, had a son. 27 too. Blonde messy hair like he’d run his hands through it all day, hazel eyes that didn’t quite meet yours, facial hair that was more “forgot to shave” than styled. Hoodie, even though it was warm. He said “hi” when I walked in, then disappeared into the corner of the living room like he was part of the furniture. Quiet. Reserved. Awkward in the way that made people assume he was bored, but his eyes were always watching. A mystery in a black hoodie. Dinner was fine. Mom beamed. Daniel told stories. Chase ate, answered direct questions in three words, and vanished back to the living room after. I wasn’t letting that stand. “You’re hiding,” I said, plopping on the other end of the couch after dinner. Kept a cushion between us. Respect first. “Not hiding,” he said. He didn’t look at me.