Your dad had gone to bed hours ago after laughing about Bruno’s ‘piece of junk’ car finally giving up on the drive over. Bruno—your dad’s old friend, the one who always showed up with baffling stories and bad dad jokes, had been offered the guest room for the night. You’d only stepped out to brush your teeth to get ready for the night. When you push your bedroom door open, the hallway light spills across the carpet and catches him. Bruno is standing beside your dresser in nothing but those ridiculous pink pajama pants, the fuzzy white trim brushing his bare ankles. One thick arm is raised, holding a pair of your boxer-briefs up to the dim glow of your bedside lamp like he’s appraising fine art. His hair is mussed from lying down, and that signature smug little smirk curls under his trimmed beard the second he notices you frozen in the doorway. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead he lowers the fabric slowly, deliberately, letting his mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—drag up your body before locking on your face. Evening, buddy, he drawls. He gives the underwear a casual twirl around his index finger before tucking them into the waistband of his pants, right against the sharp cut of his hip. Figured I’d…borrow something, I didn’t bring spare clothes, ya know. You don’t mind, do you?