The Doorway

Eli had rehearsed this moment at least ten times in his head, but now that he was standing on the Hale family porch, everything felt wrong.

The six-pack of beer he held was already slick with condensation, the cardboard handle softening under his sweaty grip. He wiped his free hand against his jeans, checked his reflection in the narrow pane of glass beside the door, and wished he had worn something nicer than a plain navy T-shirt and his beat-up sneakers.

“It’s fine,” Lily had told him. “My dad’s not uptight. He won’t care.”

But Eli cared. Meeting a girlfriend’s father was supposed to be nerve-wracking, sure, but this felt like something else—something heavier pressing against his chest. He raised his hand and knocked, the sound too loud in the quiet of the neighborhood.

He barely had time to second-guess himself before the door opened.

The man who stood there wasn’t what Eli expected.

Damian Hale looked like someone who didn’t need to try to be noticed. He filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and straight-backed, his button-down shirt sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. His forearms were strong, the veins etched like fine lines, and his dark hair—shot through with silver at the temples—only added to the impression of someone carved out of stone and certainty.

His eyes fixed on Eli, sharp and assessing. They lingered a beat too long.

“Eli, right?” His voice was deep, calm, almost too steady.

“Uh—yeah. Yes, sir.” Eli thrust out the six-pack too quickly, the bottles clinking together. One wobbled dangerously, and panic shot through him, but Damian’s hand shot out with unhurried precision, steadying the pack.

Their fingers brushed.

It wasn’t much, just a moment, but Eli’s breath caught. The warmth of that skin contact stayed even after Damian had taken the weight of the six-pack.

“Beer’s cold,” Damian said, giving the faintest nod. “Good start.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Shoes off inside.”

“Right. Of course.” Eli bent quickly, tugging at the laces of his sneakers. His ears burned. He felt sixteen again, standing in front of a teacher he wanted to impress and failing. He kicked off his shoes neatly to the side and stood, clutching at the strap of his backpack like it was armor.

He expected Lily to be there, smiling, ready to smooth things over with her easy laugh. But she wasn’t. Just Damian, watching him with that unreadable expression.

“She’ll be down in a minute,” Damian said, as though reading Eli’s thoughts. Then his mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. “In the meantime, I don’t bite.”

Eli laughed, too loud, then winced at himself. “Right.”

But he wasn’t sure Damian was joking.

---

The entryway opened into a wide, modern living space—clean lines, slate-gray walls, art hung with exact precision. Everything about it spoke of control. Damian carried the beer into the kitchen with easy authority, setting it down on the counter before gesturing to the living room sofa.

“Sit.”

The word wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t a suggestion either. Eli sat.

Damian chose the armchair opposite, leaning back with the ease of someone who belonged entirely in his space. His forearms rested on the chair’s arms, his posture unhurried but commanding. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t glance at his phone. His gaze was steady, directed fully at Eli.

“So,” Damian said. “Tell me about yourself.”

Eli swallowed. “Um—well, I’m at State with Lily. English major. I, uh, wait tables part-time.”

“And what do you want to do?” Damian asked.

Eli blinked. “After school?”

“Yes,” Damian said evenly. “After school. After waiting tables. After all the safe answers.”

The words landed like a stone in Eli’s chest. He wasn’t used to anyone asking like that—not what he did, but what he wanted. His professors cared about assignments, not futures. His dad barely asked about his classes, let alone his dreams. Even Lily, supportive as she was, never pressed him like this.

“I… don’t really know yet,” Eli admitted. His voice sounded smaller than he wanted it to.

Damian tilted his head, studying him. Then he gave a single, curt nod. “At least that’s honest.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was weighted, as if Damian had decided something about him and was waiting for Eli to realize it. Eli’s knee bounced nervously, and he pressed it down with his hand.

“You drink?” Damian asked suddenly.

Eli glanced at the six-pack. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Damian repeated, as though tasting the word. He stood and crossed to the counter, moving with a calm confidence that made the room feel smaller. He uncapped two bottles with a flick of a metal opener and handed one to Eli.

Again, their fingers brushed. Again, Eli felt heat rush through him.

He took a sip, the bitter fizz catching his throat. Damian sat back down, watching him over the rim of his own bottle.

“You nervous?” Damian asked.

Eli almost choked. “What?”

“You seem nervous,” Damian said. His tone was even, not mocking, not kind either. Just observing. “Not a bad thing. Means you care what people think. Means you want to do well.”

Eli forced a smile, his pulse racing. He wasn’t sure if Damian was reassuring him or dissecting him.

The silence that followed was taut, humming with something Eli didn’t have a name for. He could feel Damian’s gaze on him, steady and unrelenting, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to shrink under it or lean into it.

Footsteps broke the tension.

“Sorry, sorry!” Lily’s voice rang from the stairs, light and bright. She came into view, tugging earrings into place, her damp hair falling in loose waves. She leaned down to kiss Eli’s cheek, smelling faintly of citrus shampoo.

Relief swept over him—but it was mixed with something else. Something like disappointment.

“Dad, don’t grill him,” Lily teased, tossing a look at Damian. “You’ll scare him off.”

“Just talking,” Damian said, sipping his beer.

“It’s fine,” Eli added quickly, though he wasn’t sure if he meant it.

Lily laced her fingers through his, tugging him toward the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

Eli followed, grateful for the shift in energy. But when he glanced back, Damian was still seated in the armchair, his dark gaze fixed on him.

And this time, there was no mistaking it: the faintest curve of amusement tugged at his mouth.

Eli looked away too fast, heat rising in his chest. He told himself it was nothing—just nerves, just imagination.

But he already knew, deep down, that he was thinking about Lily’s father in a way he shouldn’t.