I woke to the heavy, steady rhythm of his breathing against my neck. For a second, my mind was a tangled knot of dreams and disorientation. The mattress beneath me was too low, the headboard too narrow, the air too still. Then it clicked. My childhood bed. The one with the slatted pine frame and the quilt my mother never quite bothered to replace. I was curled into his chest, my leg draped over his thigh, my fingers tangled in the cotton of his sleep shirt. He was still asleep, one arm anchored around my waist like a promise, the other cradling my shoulder. I smiled against his skin, breathing in the scent of sleep and pine and him. No panic. No hesitation. Just the quiet certainty that this was right.
I shifted carefully, not wanting to break the spell. His fingers twitched, adjusting to the loss, but he didn’t wake. I slipped out from under the covers, the cool floorboards biting my bare feet. The room was exactly as I’d left it, only now layered with the residue of us. My old desk still held a half-read paperback. The window looked out over the tree line, just like it always had. But everything felt heavier, warmer, charged with the memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth mapping me, the way he’d held me like I was something sacred and his alone. I pulled on his flannel shirt from the floor, the sleeves swallowing my hands, and padded out to the kitchen.
The kitchen was small, painted that same stubborn yellow, with a window above the sink that framed the pines. I lit the gas stove, the blue flame hissing to life, and set the heavy iron pot on the burner. Ground coffee. Dark roast, just how he liked it. I measured it out, the ritual grounding me. My mind kept drifting back to last night. To how he’d stripped me slowly, reverently, like he was unwrapping something he’d been saving for years. To the way his calloused palms had traced the line of my hips, the inside of my thighs, the soft swell of my breasts. To the heat of him, thick and heavy, sliding into me as the firelight danced on the walls. I hadn’t just been a girl in this room. I’d been his. Completely. And I wanted it again. I wanted it every day.
The floorboards creaked. I didn’t turn around, but I felt him behind me, close enough to radiate heat. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, sleep still softening his features, his jaw shadowed, his chest bare under a thin tunic.
“You’re up early,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
“Couldn’t sleep. Too happy.”
He hummed, a low sound that vibrated in the small space. He came to stand beside me, watching the water heat in the pot. His shoulder pressed against mine, solid and familiar. I leaned into him, just a little, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse.
We took the mugs out to the porch. The morning air was crisp, carrying the damp scent of pine needles and lake water. I wrapped my hands around the ceramic, feeling the warmth seep into my palms. He settled into the wicker chair beside mine, one knee drawn up, the other foot planted on the floor. I looked out at the water. The lake was glassy, perfectly still, reflecting the pale blue sky and the dark green of the shoreline. Not a ripple. Not a breath of wind. Just silence and gold light bleeding over the pines.
“We should do this every year,” I said, the words slipping out before I could soften them.
He turned his head, studying me over the rim of his mug. His eyes were dark, focused, unreadable for a second before a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“New traditions,” he agreed.
“New traditions,” I echoed, feeling the phrase settle between us like a vow.
I took a sip, the coffee bitter and perfect. The quiet stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything we’d done, everything we’d become. I thought about how many Christmases, how many summers, how many lonely nights I’d spent in this exact chair, waiting for a life that felt too big, too distant, too ordinary. Now, it felt just right. Just him. I shifted in my chair, the flannel shirt slipping off one shoulder. He noticed, of course. His gaze dropped, lingering on the bare skin, then back up to my eyes.
“Cold?”
“No,” I said. “Just comfortable.”
He nodded slowly, then reached for his mug again. We sat like that for a long time, watching the light shift across the water, the fireflies beginning to blink in the tall grass. The house was quiet behind us, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like a sanctuary. I thought about how many years I’d spent pretending this space was just a memory, just a box to unpack and leave behind. Now it was a threshold. A place where we could shed the world and just be us.
“Do you remember,” I said quietly, “the summer I turned ten? When you taught me how to skip stones?”
“How could I forget?” he said. “You kept trying to beat me, and you threw your best one at my boot by accident.”
“You laughed,” I said. “You actually laughed.”
“I laugh a lot,” he said. “For you.”
The simplicity of it made my throat tight. I turned to face him fully, crossing my legs, pulling the flannel tighter. “I want to keep doing this. Just us. No guests. No holidays. Just… us. In this house. On the porch. Every year.”
He studied me, then nodded. “Every year. We’ll make a calendar of it. Mark it like something sacred.”
“It is,” I said.
He reached out, fingers wrapping around my wrist, pulling my hand into his lap. His thumb traced slow circles over my pulse. I could feel the strength in him, the quiet dominance that never demanded, only offered. I laced my fingers through his, resting my hand against his thigh. “I like the way you look at me,” I said. “Like I’m the only thing that matters.”
“You are,” he said. “You always have been.”
I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his shoulder, breathing him in. He didn’t move, just let me rest there, his arm wrapping around my back, holding me in place. The morning stretched, golden and slow. Somewhere down the shore, a loon called, its voice echoing over the glassy water. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want the day to start. I wanted to stay right here, in the quiet, in the warmth, in the space he’d carved out for me.
“Daddy,” I whispered, testing the word again, feeling it roll off my tongue like honey.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct me. Just tightened his hold, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m here.”
I closed my eyes, listening to his heartbeat, steady and sure. The coffee had gone lukewarm, but I didn’t care. The lake was still. The morning was ours. And for the first time in my life, I knew exactly where I belonged. Not in the past. Not in the future. Right here. Right now. With him. Always.