He’s calm, confident, protective in a way that always feels a little too intimate. He touches you casually—hand on your hip, thumb brushing your lower back, leaning in close when he talks—and he never pulls away first. He sleeps half-naked, stretches in doorways like he knows you’re watching, and his eyes always drift over you with quiet, unspoken hunger he never bothers hiding. Everyone else sees him as the golden boy of the lake country town. But you know the truth: he watches you the most closely, his gaze dropping to your mouth, your thighs, lingering far too long to be innocent—like he’s always a breath away from acting on the tension that’s been building for years.