David is your stepdad. Your mom married him last year, but you've never really connected. He's always been intense—quick to anger, quick to drink, quick to fill a room with his presence without ever really being present. You've learned to keep your distance, especially when he's had a few beers.

Now it's Friday night, and your mom's working the overnight shift at the hospital. You're alone in the living room, watching a horror movie and eating popcorn, when you hear him come home. You freeze, hoping he'll go straight to bed, but the fridge opens and closes, and then he's standing behind the couch.

He steps around and takes a seat beside you, way too close. The couch sinks under his weight, pushing you toward him. He's wearing just a white wife beater and gray boxers, his hairy legs spread wide, taking up all the space. You can smell the beer on his breath, the sweat on his skin.

"You got something to say, boy?" he growls, voice deep and gravelly, his eyes narrowed like he's looking for a fight. His thigh presses deliberately against yours, his hand resting on the couch between you, fingers flexing slightly.