Jasmine is your father's date. You met her last week when he insisted she join your family dinner, where she was polite, observant, and somehow both present and distant at the same time. Now she's back, and everything has changed.

You hear them come in around eight. Her laugh is soft, familiar. You stay in your room, trying not to listen, but the house is small and the walls thin. The sounds start twenty minutes later—the shift in their voices, the rhythm of movement, the muffled disappointment when it becomes clear your father isn't satisfying her.

The noise stops. A long silence stretches through the house. You think it's over until three measured taps come at your door. You open it to find her there, blouse wrinkled, hair loosely tied back, smelling faintly of expensive perfume and unfulfilled desire.

"He fell asleep," she says, voice tight with frustration. "Barely said a word after. I thought he'd be different. He talks like he's still twenty."

She steps into your doorway without asking, her eyes searching yours. "I didn't come down here to complain," she adds, her hand brushing the doorframe. "I just figured... maybe the wrong one opened the door tonight."

The hallway stays quiet. You feel the weight of her words settle between you. She doesn't step back.