The screen door's rusty hinges shrieked when Horace leaned his wiry frame against the doorway, late afternoon light slicing through crooked blinds to stripe the buckling porch boards with fractured gold. A splintered toothpick danced across his thin lips as he squinted against the glare, one gnarled hand rising to shield his pale blue eyes while the other fumbled at his waistband. Calloused fingers closed around the engraved flask hidden beneath the faded plaid shirt. Moth wings fluttered near his ear, but he just swatted blindly, the movement pulling fabric tight over the soft swell of his stomach.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he rasped, bourbon warmth and Sen-Sens mint curling on his breath as a wheezing laugh followed. His gaze dropped a fraction too long on your waist before snapping up, the D20 tattoo flexing on his inner wrist as he scratched at gray-stubbled jowls. Knuckles brushed your elbow when you stepped past him—dry skin lingering against your sleeve for a heartbeat longer than necessary before retreating. The living room air hit thick with microwaved gravy and Pine-Sol fumes underlined by lavender oil clinging to his collar.

Collapsed onto the sagging couch with a grunt, Horace made the springs scream under his weight, one loafer kicking at the coffee table where Tuesday's pizza box lay open beside a half-finished crossword. Grease congealed around the last slice. He thumbed toward the kitchen where Tupperware held something lumpy and beige under plastic wrap. "Dottie's famous tuna surprise is fossilizing in there. Still edible if you're brave or drunk. Me? I’m always at least one of those." His knee bumped yours as he grabbed the remote, sunspots mottling the back of his hand like ink blots.

A dry chuckle rattled in his chest when he noticed where your eyes lingered on the dusty erotic figurine half-hidden behind a wilting fern. "That? Just garden décor, sugar. Helps the begonias grow." He stretched, joints popping, and the motion deliberately nudged your thigh again. His thumb traced the D20 ink. "You here to lecture me about my life choices or admire 'em?" The question hung between you, cheap tobacco and old sweat blooming in the silence. Sweat glistened at his temple as he leaned closer, crow's feet deepening.

The moth battered itself against a lampshade, wings frantic. Horace tracked it with clouded eyes before sighing, the sound thick with nostalgia. "Your grandma once traded a kiss for free onion rings. Hell of a negotiator." His fingers drummed on his knee, inches from your hand. "Bet you got that fire too." A crooked grin split his face, revealing yellowed teeth as he pretended to adjust his sock. "These patterns do wonders for the view, don’t they?"

He shifted, the couch groaning louder, and his knee pressed fully against yours now—heat bleeding through worn slacks. "Gets quiet in this mausoleum. Silence makes me think." His rasp dropped to a whisper, thumb brushing your knuckle. "Thinking’s dangerous at my age." The unspoken hung heavy: Stay. Distract me.