The canvas of the tent shuddered with the rhythm of Mom's breathing. I lay on my stomach, chin propped on one arm, watching the zipper's shadow stretch across the dirt floor. An hour had passed since she'd slipped under the covers, leaving the tent to us. The fire outside crackled, a rhythmic pop that sent sparks spiraling into the pines, the scent of smoke weaving through the faint smell of lavender soap.
Daddy shifted beside me. He'd been quiet since Mom turned in, his presence a solid weight at the edge of the sleeping bag. He didn't speak immediately. He just reached out, fingers brushing the damp strand of hair stuck to my temple, tucking it back. His touch was dry, warm, the callouses of his workman's grip rough against my skin.
"She's out," he murmured, voice raspy from the day's heat. "And we're not."
The invitation hung in the small space. I kicked off the fleece layer and sat up. The tent felt suffocating, stuffed with the day's humidity and the knowledge that by morning, we'd be packing the truck and heading home. Daddy was already moving, pushing his knees back and standing. He offered a hand, palm up, and I took it. His grip was firm, pulling me up with effortless strength.
We stepped out together. The night air hit like a cold splash, instantly sobering the buzz in my blood. The sky was a vault of indigo, bruised purple near the horizon, dotted with stars so bright they looked like spilled milk. The fire pit was a ring of glowing coals, radiating a gentle warmth that didn't burn.
Daddy walked ahead, boots crunching on the gravel, then stopped at the spot we'd marked with a flat stone. He turned and gestured to the space between us and the embers. "Last night," he said, echoing the truth. "No walls. No roof."
He spread the flannel blanket over the dry pine needles, shaking it out once before settling it down. The fabric rustled loudly in the quiet. I sat, knees drawn to my chest, watching him kick out the embers with a long branch, sending a shower of gold dust drifting upward. When he came back, he was carrying the jar of honey from the cooler, the tin lid pried off.
"Story?" I asked.
"A true one." He sat back, pulling me down until my shoulder pressed against his thigh. "The bear that stole the coolers in '09. You were four."
He recounted the tale, voice dropping to a low timbre that vibrated through his jeans into my side. He used his hands to illustrate, carving shapes in the air, his thumb tracing the rim of the honey jar. I watched his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the way the firelight caught the gold flecks in his irises. He didn't look at me while he spoke; his focus was on the memory, on sharing the world with me. But when the story ended, his hand slid from the jar to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and his head tilted up.
"Now," he whispered. "For real."
He didn't wait. He shifted his weight, angling his body, and pulled me forward until I was straddling his lap on the blanket. The ground was firm through the flannel, smelling of earth and resin. I settled my hands on his shoulders, feeling the hard ridge of muscle beneath his rolled shirtsleeves. The fire popped behind us, heat kissing the backs of my calves, while the starlight cooled my shoulders.
He peeled the buttons of my shirt with slow, deliberate movements, each one popping free, revealing skin to the air. He kissed the hollow of my throat, his beard grazing the sensitive spot there, sending a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. I arched back, pressing closer, seeking the friction.
His mouth moved down, lazy and sure, kissing the pulse point at my wrist, then the dip of my collarbone. He pushed the fabric of my top aside, his lips sealing over my skin. I could feel his breath, hot and even, against my chest. His hands slid down my ribs, fingers splaying wide, gripping the flare of my hips. The hold was anchor-like, keeping me steady as he tilted his head and took me in.
There was no ceiling to muffle the sound. The crickets sawed their legs in the brush, a steady hum under our breathing. I glanced up, dizzy, at the Milky Way stretching from branch to branch, and then looked down at him. His eyes were fixed on my face, dark and focused, tracking the way my mouth opened, the way my fingers dug into his shoulders.
"Look at me, princess," he said, the word soft against my skin.
He stood, lifting me effortlessly, and turned us so my back faced the fire. I braced my hands on his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart, and he guided me down onto the blanket. The flannel crinkled beneath us. He hovered over me, one hand splayed on my stomach, the other braced by my head. The angle exposed me fully, the stars framing his face, the firelight casting long shadows across his arms.
He drove into me with a steady rhythm, the movement smooth, unhurried. The ground pressed firm against my back, grounding me as he filled me, stretching me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. The friction was perfect, a blend of his weight and the tilt of my hips. He kissed me deeply, swallowing my gasps, his tongue sweeping my mouth while his hips rolled, slow and deep.
The world narrowed to the sensation of him, the rough weave of the blanket under my palms, the scent of pine and sweat mixing in the air. I felt the coil tighten low in my belly, a pull that started in my toes and swept upward. His pace quickened, just a fraction, the grind of his pelvis against mine more urgent. I felt his breath change, a ragged draw against my neck, and that was all it took.
I broke, a silent cry caught in my throat, my body shuddering as the pleasure crested. He held me through it, his grip tightening, his own release following a moment later, a groan vibrating against my collarbone. He stayed buried, his weight resting on one forearm, his face buried in the curve of my neck.
We lay there for a long time, listening to the fire settle and the wind rustle the high branches. Slowly, the cool air seeped back into my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. He shifted, rolling to his side, and pulled the blanket up over us, tucking the edges around my shoulders. His arm came over my waist, heavy and possessive, pulling me flush against his chest.
"Last night," he murmured again, his voice a rumble in the dark.
"Yeah," I whispered, closing my eyes, the taste of him on my lips, the stars still burning in my mind. "Last night."