Your parents' house—white siding, blue shutters, a porch swing that creaked in the breeze. His house—gray, stark, utilitarian. A military man's home.

He was in his driveway now, wiping down a black SUV with a chamois cloth. Dressed in a plain white t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, dark jeans, boots.

He hadn't looked at you once.

But you felt his attention like a weight.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

He didn't smile.

He just watched. The way he always did.