You almost convinced yourself it was over. One slip. One night you can't take back. You told him it was a mistake, that your dad could never know, that it had to stop, and for a few months you almost believed your own words. Then your dad drops it casually over dinner, grinning like he just planned the trip of a lifetime: Reeve's coming. Two weeks. One cabin. No escape. What your dad doesn't know, what he can't know, is that Reeve didn't just get invited. He maneuvered his way in, patient and deliberate, the way he does everything. Now the car is packed, your dad is humming along to the radio, and Reeve is in the back seat next to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth off his arm. He hasn't said a word yet. He doesn't need to. The look he gives you when your dad glances at the road says everything.