I couldn’t sleep. The last night in my childhood bedroom felt like a held breath, the air thick with the weight of everything I was leaving behind and everything I was about to carry. My sheets were tangled around my legs, damp with a sweat that had nothing to do with the summer heat. I slipped out of bed, the floorboards cool against my bare feet, and moved through the shadows of my room. Posters, books, the half-packed suitcase by the door—it all looked like a stranger’s life. I didn’t bother with the hallway light. I knew every creak, every draft, every shadow. The house was a tomb of memories, and I was the only one awake to mourn it.
Downstairs, the kitchen glowed with the pale blue of the refrigerator light. Dad stood by the counter, one hand braced against the edge, the other holding a half-empty glass of bourbon. He was wearing just his gray boxer briefs, the fabric stretched tight over his thighs, the hem riding just above his knees. The low ceiling light cast deep shadows across his shoulders, the broad expanse of his back, the way his spine curved when he shifted his weight. He hadn’t heard me. Or maybe he had and was just pretending not to. I stood in the doorway, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the quiet rhythm of a man who carried the world in his silence.
He turned when he finally noticed me. His eyes, the same dark brown as mine, caught the dim light. No words. Just a slow blink, a slight tilt of his head. I crossed the kitchen in three silent steps and sank onto the floor beside his chair. The linoleum was cool through my thin cotton shorts. He didn’t ask where I was going or why I was awake. He just set his glass down and sat with me, his knee brushing mine in the dark. We didn’t speak. The silence between us wasn’t empty; it was full. It was the kind of quiet that hums in your ears, the kind that makes you feel every heartbeat, every breath, every unspoken thing pressing against your ribs.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he finally whispered, his voice rough from disuse. “Yeah.” “You’ll be fine.” “I don’t know if I will.” He chuckled, low and warm. “You’ve always been fine. You just forget it sometimes.” I leaned my head back against the cabinet. “What if I forget how to be me without this place? Without you?” He went quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Do you remember the nurse?” I shook my head. “I wasn’t there.” “I was.” His voice dropped even lower, almost a murmur. “They brought you out. Wrapped up in that blue blanket, just a tiny thing. I was so scared I couldn’t breathe. The nurse put you in my arms, and you just… stopped crying. Looked right at me. Like you knew exactly who I was.” He swallowed. “I swore right then. I swore I’d protect you forever. No matter what. No matter how old you got. No matter where you went. You were mine, and I’d give you everything.”
His voice broke on the last word. Just a crack, but it hit me like a physical blow. My chest tightened. I turned to him, and in the dark, I could see the sheen of tears in his eyes, the way his jaw worked. I didn’t think. I just moved. I crawled into his lap, straddling his thighs, my hands finding the hard planes of his chest through his thin cotton shirt. He stiffened, but didn’t push me away. His hands came up, big and warm, resting on my hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above my shorts. I could feel the heat of him, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath my palms. I leaned in and kissed him.
At first, he just sat there, letting me. His lips were slightly chapped, his mouth warm and familiar. But then his hand tightened on my hip, and he pulled back just enough to breathe. “We can’t,” he whispered, his voice rougher now, edged with something dark and hungry. “Not like this. Not ever.” “Fuck it,” I murmured against his mouth. “I don’t care.” I kissed him harder, deeper, my tongue sliding past his lips, tasting the bourbon and the salt of his skin. He groaned, a low, broken sound, and finally gave in. His mouth crashed against mine, hungry and desperate, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head while the other gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him. I could feel his boxers straining, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against my thigh, and it sent a jolt straight down my spine. I ground against him, just a little, and he shuddered, his breath catching in his throat.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Little girl. My little girl.” “I’m not little,” I whispered back, breaking the kiss just to watch his face, to see the hunger warring with restraint. “I’m yours.” He kissed me again, slower this time, but no less intense. His hand moved from my hip to my back, sliding up to brush my hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. I could feel the weight of him, the solid reality of him, and it made my head spin. The dark kitchen, the quiet house, the hum of the refrigerator—it all faded. There was only him, and the way his thumb traced slow circles over my collarbone, and the way his mouth moved over mine like he was memorizing me. I shifted, my knee pressing higher between his thighs, and he let out a low groan, his grip tightening.
“Daddy,” I breathed, the word feeling strange on my tongue, heavier than it should, richer, more obscene in the quiet. “Yeah, baby.” “Don’t stop.” He didn’t. His hand slid down my side, over my hip, and then lower, just above my knee, but not quite. He was holding back, always holding back, like he was afraid of breaking something precious. I wanted to break it. I wanted him to. I kissed him until my lips were numb, until my chest was heaving, until the line between us blurred into something else, something raw and unapologetic. He tasted like bourbon and salt and home, and I never wanted to leave.
Then, above us, a floorboard creaked. We froze. His hand stopped moving. My breath caught in my throat. The soft, familiar rhythm of Mom’s footsteps began to descend the stairs, slow and deliberate, the sound of her slippers on wood echoing through the quiet house. I didn’t move. Neither did he. We just sat there in the dark, pressed together, hearts pounding in sync, listening to the sound of her coming closer, knowing the moment we’d stolen was about to end.