Mom’s car pulled out of the driveway at 7 a.m., leaving me standing in the doorway with her overnight bag still slung over my shoulder. The garage door clattered shut, the sound echoing too loudly in the sudden quiet. I didn’t close the door immediately. I just watched the tire tracks fade into the wet gravel, then stepped back inside and locked the deadbolt. My house keys jingled in my hand. Dad’s keys were already on the hook by the mudroom, where he’d tossed them after his own shower. He’d been waiting. I could feel it in the way the air felt heavier, charged, like the house itself was holding its breath.
I found him in the master bedroom, still asleep, the duvet pulled up to his chest. Sunlight cut through the blinds in sharp stripes across his thighs. I didn’t bother tiptoeing. I dropped to my knees on the plush carpet, the cool fibers pressing against my shins, and pulled the fabric down just enough to see him. He was already hard, just from me watching, or maybe from knowing I’d finally stop pretending. I hooked my fingers in the waistband of his boxer briefs and pushed them down. The thick, heavy weight of him spilled out, already leaking a pearl of pre-cum at the tip. I leaned in, pressed my lips to the soft underside, and tasted him before I even took him into my mouth.
He groaned, a low, rough sound that vibrated in his chest. His hand came down to my hair, not pulling, just anchoring, fingers tangling in my strands as I worked my mouth down the length of him. I didn’t rush. I let my tongue trace the vein, then took him deep, sucking gently, feeling him twitch against my tongue. He was already breathing harder, hips lifting slightly to meet me. I swallowed around him, one hand stroking the base while my mouth worked the crown, learning his rhythm, learning the way his breath hitched when I pressed just right. When he finally pushed into my throat, I didn’t gag. I just kept my eyes open, watching his face, watching his chest rise and fall, until he came with a shudder, hot and thick coating my tongue. I pulled back slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and smiled up at him.
“Breakfast,” he said, voice rough but steady. “You’re making breakfast.”
I climbed onto the bed, kissed him deeply, and let him lead me to the kitchen. We didn’t speak much, just moved together like we’d done it a hundred times. I cracked eggs into a bowl, butter sizzled in the pan, and he stood behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. His hands slid down to my hips, thumbs pressing into the fabric of my sleep shorts. I turned the pancakes, feeling the heat of his thighs against my back, the hard ridge of his cock already pressing against my lower back through the thin cotton. I set two plates on the counter, stacked with eggs, bacon, and fluffy pancakes, and stepped back just enough to pull his boxers down.
I dropped to my knees right there, the cool tile pressing against my bare knees, and took him into my mouth while the coffee machine gurgled behind me. He groaned into my shoulder, one hand gripping the counter edge, the other tangled in my hair. I ate him like I was starving, slow and deep, until he spilled over my tongue and I swallowed it all. When I stood, he lifted me onto the counter, pushing my thighs wide around his hips. The wood was smooth and cool against my backside, but I barely felt it over the heat of him. He didn’t use our hands at first, just slid into me in one slow thrust, stretching me open, feeling my walls clamp around him. Then he moved, rolling his hips, hitting that spot deep inside that made my breath catch. I wrapped my legs around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders, and rode him through the crack in our eggs, pancakes cooling on the plates, coffee dripping into the pot. He came inside me with a quiet curse, and I felt every pulse, thick and warm, before he pulled out and kissed me like I was his.
We didn’t dress right away. He carried me to the bathroom, stepped into the shower with me, and let the water run hot. The tiles steamed up quickly, fogging the mirror, blurring the world outside. He washed my back with the loofah, soap slipping over my skin, his hands sliding down to cup my ass, then lower, tracing my thighs. I turned in the spray, pressing my body to his, feeling him harden again against my stomach. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his eyes close, watching his chest rise and fall. When I pushed back into the shower, I rode him slowly, the water cascading over our skin, his hands gripping my hips, holding me in place as he filled me again and again. I came with a muffled gasp, pressing my forehead to his collarbone, feeling him throb inside me before he pulled out and finished on my stomach. I didn’t wipe it off. I just kissed him, tasting salt and shower gel and him, and let the water rinse us clean.
The rest of the weekend blurred into a haze of soft sheets and heavier breathing. We barely left the bedroom. I pulled the duvet up to our chins, curled against his chest, and let him scratch my back while the TV played a rom-com neither of us really watched. He ordered pizza, and we ate it in bed, crusts resting on our thighs, sauce staining our fingers. He fed me a bite, licking it from my lips, and I laughed, a real, unguarded sound that startled us both. He kissed me again, slower this time, tongue tracing my bottom lip, and I melted into it, feeling the weight of him beside me, solid and real.
We didn’t hide. We didn’t whisper. When he pulled my shirt over my head, I just watched him, letting him study me, letting him memorize the way my nipples hardened in the cool air. He pushed me back onto the pillows, straddling him, and sank into me slowly, feeling every ridge, every pulse. I rode him like I owned him, rolling my hips, taking him deep, feeling him thicken inside me, until he grabbed my hips and flipped me onto my back, pressing me into the mattress. I wrapped my legs around his waist, nails scraping his shoulders, and let him take me again and again, each thrust deeper, each kiss slower, each breath matching until we were just sound and skin and heat. He came inside me with a quiet growl, and I felt it, felt him spill hot and thick, and I stayed buried in him, listening to his heart hammer against my chest.
Sunday came like it had been pulled straight from a magazine. Sunlight through the blinds, the smell of bacon and coffee, the weight of him beside me, still warm, still hard. We made love in the kitchen again, then in the living room on the rug, then in the master bedroom with the door wide open. We watched movies, we ate pizza, we fell asleep tangled together, legs over each other, hands resting on bare skin. I didn’t feel like I was pretending. I felt like I was finally where I belonged. He called me sweetheart, I called him daddy, and it didn’t feel forced. It felt like a promise.
By Sunday evening, the house felt different. Lighter. Like it had been waiting for us to stop fighting the current. I sat on his lap, shirtless, his hands resting on my bare thighs, and let him trace the line of my spine with his thumb. We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to. The weekend had already rewritten us. We weren’t hiding anymore. We weren’t whispering. We were just us. And for two days, that was enough. More than enough. It was everything.