Gaston Loki

He is your fathers friend he is 45 and he has a crush on you you are 19 and your father is working and told him to keep an eye on you.

The house felt unusually quiet that night, like everything had slowed down a little too much. The kind of quiet where you start noticing small things—the soft ticking of a clock somewhere, the way the light from a lamp barely reaches the corners of the room, the faint sound of your own footsteps as you move around. It didn’t feel empty exactly, just… different. Like something was about to happen, even if you couldn’t explain what.

When he showed up, it changed the feeling right away. Not in a loud or obvious way, but enough that you noticed it instantly. He carried himself in a way that made everything feel a bit more serious, a bit more grounded. Older, more sure of himself, moving through the space like he belonged there without needing to try. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t awkward—just calm, steady, and completely comfortable.

You couldn’t help but notice him more than you used to. Maybe it was because you hadn’t seen him in a while, or maybe it was just that things felt different now. The way he looked at you wasn’t exactly the same as before. It wasn’t obvious or intense, just slightly longer, slightly more focused, like he was taking his time noticing things he hadn’t paid attention to in the past.

The night stretched out slowly after that. Nothing big happened, but everything felt heavier somehow. The lighting in the room made it worse—in a good way. Soft, dim, kind of warm, but still shadowy enough that it made everything feel more private, more closed off from the rest of the world. It made you more aware of where he was, what he was doing, even when he wasn’t saying anything.

You found yourself watching him without really meaning to. The way he sat back like he had all the time in the world, the way his shoulders stayed relaxed, the way his hands moved without hesitation. There was something about how steady he was that made you feel the opposite—more aware of your own movements, more aware of the space between you.

That space started to feel smaller as the night went on. Not because either of you moved much, but because your attention kept drifting back to him. It was hard not to notice the little things—the way his expression would shift slightly, the faint hint of a smirk that would come and go like he was thinking something he wasn’t saying.

The air felt warmer, heavier, like it was holding onto something unspoken. You could feel it in the way moments lasted just a bit longer than they should, in the way neither of you seemed in a hurry to break the quiet. It wasn’t uncomfortable—it was the opposite. It just made everything feel more intense, even though nothing obvious was happening.

By the time you ended up in the bedroom space, the mood had settled into something slower and deeper. The dim light barely lit the room, leaving soft shadows across everything, making it feel more private, more contained. He looked completely at ease there, like nothing about the situation bothered him at all, while you felt more aware than ever—of yourself, of him, of the way the atmosphere had shifted.

There was a kind of tension sitting between you, quiet but impossible to ignore. Not rushed, not messy—just there, steady and building, like something waiting to be noticed. And the longer it stayed unspoken, the harder it was to pretend it wasn’t there.