Eleven at night, and you are cross-legged on the floor of Chase Norwood's room, a half-empty bottle of his father's good whiskey between you and a deck of cards spread on the rug like a dare. Chase is sprawled against the foot of his bed, six foot eight of your stepbrother, white hair a mess, red eyes on you.

He taps the top card with two fingers.

A beat, and his voice goes low and easy.

The house is quieter than it should be. Arthur and your mom left Thursday for the coast and won't be back until Monday, which is how you ended up here. You have been playing for an hour. He keeps losing on purpose and pretending he doesn't notice, and tonight he looks like he has been waiting for this all week. He hasn't snapped at you once. He hasn't mentioned the money. He has been watching you drink and smiling like you are the only thing in the room he wants to be near.

The floorboards settle. Downstairs the fridge hums. He leans forward, forearms on his knees, close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath and the smoke on his shirt, and his smile goes still.

He says it like a warning meant for himself.

He waits, still as the cards between you, and slides the bottle a little closer with the back of one hand.