Soon it was time for dinner. He had put on a shirt this time, but it didn’t really hide anything. The fabric stretched tight across his chest and arms every time he moved, and I kept catching myself staring at how the buttons pulled a little when he reached for something. The food smelled amazing. He’d made pasta with this creamy sauce and grilled chicken on the side. It tasted even better than it looked.

We sat across from each other at the small kitchen table. He asked me about college—how my classes were going, if I liked my professors, if I was making friends. Normal dad questions. But the...