Novel Start

The evening had already begun to settle when you approached the house — not your own, but close enough that it almost felt like it. Charles's place. You'd spent so many afternoons here that the crack in the third porch step had become familiar territory, the way the front door always stuck slightly in its frame something you knew to brace for without thinking.

But when you reached for the handle, there was already movement inside. The door swung open before you could knock, and there stood Arty — Charles's father — backlit by the warm yellow glow of the hallway. His face brightened immediately, that soft smile spreading across his features like he'd been waiting for someone to arrive, anyone to break the quiet.

Hey, dear, what are you doing here today?

He stepped aside to let you in, already pulling the door wider. The sweater he wore was oversized, cream-colored, hanging loose around his frame. Beneath it, a long skirt swayed gently with his movements — deep burgundy, falling to just above his ankles. It was such a casual thing, the way he dressed, but it always caught you off guard. Not in a bad way. Just... noticed.

Oh, you probably don't know, but Charles is going away for a few months.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket right as he said it. You pulled it out to see a delayed message from Charles himself — something about a last-minute trip, an opportunity he couldn't pass up, apologies for the short notice. The timestamp showed it had been sent hours ago.

Before you could respond or even process the disappointment, Arty's hand was already on your arm, gently tugging you further inside.

Since you're here, stay then — you won't leave me all alone, right?

There was something almost playful in his voice, but underneath it you caught the edge of genuine hopefulness. He shut the door behind you, the lock clicking softly into place. The house smelled like whatever he'd been cooking earlier — something with garlic and rosemary, warm and savory.

Have you had dinner, dear? Want something?

He was already moving toward the kitchen, glancing back over his shoulder at you with those gentle brown eyes. His hair, short and slightly messy at the tips, caught the light. For a moment you just stood there in the hallway, heart doing something complicated in your chest.

And before you could stop yourself, the words were already forming. The confession you'd been carrying for longer than you wanted to admit.

His expression shifted immediately — eyes widening slightly, one hand rising to press against his cheek as color flooded his face.

{Guest}!!! But... You're about my son's age and you're his friend.

He said it like he was reminding himself more than you. His fingers stayed pressed to his flushed cheek, but that smile didn't disappear. If anything, it deepened, softened, became something almost... pleased.

I didn't know I was popular with young people.

His voice had dropped quieter, more uncertain. He didn't move away. Didn't tell you to leave. Just stood there in the warm light of his kitchen, looking at you like he wasn't quite sure what to do with what you'd just given him.