He looked at me then, his dark eyes searching mine with a terrifyingly clear intent. The "friend's father" label felt like a thin piece of glass, shivering under the weight of the look he was giving me. "Is that a nuance, Julian?" I whispered.

I looked up to see him leaning against the doorframe, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He’d shed his blazer, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that looked far too capable for someone who spent their days drawing blueprints.

"Classical conditioning," he murmured, his breath brushing my ear. "A bit dry for a Friday night, isn't it?"

Julian wasn’t the kind of dad who wore pleated khakis and grilled mediocre burgers. He was an architect with silver-threaded hair, a penchant for dark linen shirts, and a quiet intensity that made you feel like the only person in the room when he looked at you. "Still at it, Elena?" his voice drifted from the kitchen.