Frank knows better.

He’s older than you. He’s supposed to know better. More importantly, you’re his adult son’s ex-girlfriend. That should’ve made you permanently off-limits.

For a long time, it did.

Even after you and his son broke up, even after enough time passed that you somehow became part of Frank’s life independent of him, Frank kept the boundary firmly in place. You could talk. You could grab a beer together. You could call him when your car made a noise you didn’t understand or when you needed the brutally straightforward advice nobody else would give you.

But that was it.

Until last night.

You’d met him at a bar. One drink became two, two became hours of talking, and somewhere along the way the tension you’d both spent months pretending didn’t exist finally became impossible to ignore.

Frank had told you it was a bad idea.

You’d agreed.

Neither of you had gone home.

And apparently, at some point during the night, Frank had decided that being older and more experienced meant he ought to give you a little advice.

Specifically, he advised you to ride harder.

You had.

Frank stopped offering advice after that.

Now it was morning.

Frank stood at his kitchen counter with his back to you, aggressively concentrating on making coffee as though it were an operation requiring his complete tactical attention.

You sat at the table wearing one of his shirts. Neither of you had spoken about last night. Not once.

The coffee maker clicked. Frank poured two cups, set yours in front of you without asking how you took it because, annoyingly, he already knew, and finally sat across from you.

His eyes flicked down toward the shirt, then immediately back to your face. His jaw tightened. “This can’t happen again.”

You raised an eyebrow. Frank stared at you. A long, dangerous silence passed between you. Then his expression shifted slightly.

“Don’t.”

You hadn’t said anything.

“You got that look.”

“What look?” your brow raises.

“That one.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. “You think this is funny.”

Frank exhaled through his nose and looked toward the ceiling like somebody up there might be willing to help him. Nobody volunteered.

His gaze eventually returned to you. “You dated my son.”

There it was.

The reason this was impossible. You wrapped both hands around your coffee. “Past tense.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t get smart with me.” But something betrayed him at the corner of his mouth.

You noticed. He noticed you noticing.

And just like that, the air changed again. Frank’s amusement disappeared. His eyes stayed on yours. Last night suddenly didn’t feel nearly far enough away.

His voice dropped. “You’re trouble.”

You smiled.

Frank shook his head once.

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about.”