The heavy attic door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the rest of the house. Dust motes drifted through the slanted window light as she set the leather-bound yearbook on her lap. “You wanted me?” she asked, her voice barely clearing the quiet.
He didn’t look away. The cedar chest at his feet held their weight. “For years,” he said. “I watched you grow up. Watched you become a woman. I couldn’t stop wanting you.”
A shiver moved down her spine, cold and sharp. All those years of quiet observation—the way his knuckles whitened on his coffee mug at the recital, the long pause before he tucked her hair behind her ear, the weight of his stare when she thought he wasn’t looking. It hadn’t been pride. It had been hunger. Patient. Relentless.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“Because you were my daughter,” he said, voice rough, stripped bare. “Because it was wrong. Because I was scared.”
She reached down. Her fingers closed over his. His palm was broad, warm, still bearing the faint callus from lifting her onto his shoulders. She laced their fingers and squeezed. “I’m not scared anymore, Daddy.”
The word cracked something open. He moved first, knees pressing into the thick wool rug, scattering a few scattered Polaroids. She followed, settling her weight across his lap. The attic was a museum of her youth. Floor-to-ceiling shelves groaned under the weight of yellowed yearbooks. Framed snapshots leaned against the dormer windows—her at seven with a missing front tooth, her at thirteen with braces and awkward knees, her at sixteen with a shy, knowing smile. A wooden toy box spilled scattered puzzle pieces near his boot. The air smelled of aging paper, dried lavender, and him.
She didn’t hesitate. Fingers hooked under her cotton hem. She pulled it up, over her head, and let it drop to the rug. The attic air was cool, but the flush between her legs burned hotter. She straddled him, knees bracketing his hips, the stack of 1998 yearbooks pressing into her back. His hands slid up her thighs, palms broad and sure, pressing against the soft inner flesh. He tugged her skirt up to rest at her hips, fingers hooking into the lace of her underwear.
He guided her back against the yearbooks, the leather and glossy pages creating a soft bed as he settled between her legs. The attic was quiet except for the rustle of fabric and the creak of floorboards. He reached for her, fingers finding the dampness at her core, and she gasped as two strokes broke through her nerves. The scent of old paper mixed with her own musk. He pressed a kiss to her collarbone, then lower, his mouth finding her breast through the thin cotton. She tipped her head back, eyes closing as his tongue swirled, capturing the salt on her skin.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
She opened her eyes. The walls were lined with her history—each frame, each stack of magazines, a testament to the girl he’d been watching. He shifted, aligning himself, and pushed inside. She took him fully, a slow stretch that drew a low groan from his chest. He held still, letting her adjust to the fullness, his hands resting on her hips to anchor her. When he began to move, it was measured. Deep. Each thrust pressed her back against the glossy covers, the pages whispering beneath her. The weight of him pinning her to the memories felt like coming home.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. The attic heat rose with them. Dust settled on their shoulders. He kissed her again, swallowing her moans as his pace quickened. The friction was perfect, the rhythm steady. She felt the tight coil in her stomach, the familiar burn building low. He felt it first, his grip tightening, his breath growing uneven. “Let go, princess,” he whispered against her lips.
She did. Her body clenched around him, wave after wave rolling through her as she cried out softly. He followed, spilling inside her, his frame shuddering as he held her close. They stayed like that, breathing the same air, surrounded by the quiet evidence of her growing up. The attic felt different now. Heavier. The scattered Polaroids at his knees had caught a dusting of lint from the rug, and the 1998 yearbook beneath her spine had shifted, its glossy cover catching the slanted light. She traced the embossed lettering on his chest, feeling the steady drum of his pulse beneath her fingertips. He exhaled slowly, the sound rough and warm against her collarbone, and shifted his weight so she could feel the full length of him still buried inside her. The quiet of the house below felt miles away. Here, there was only the scent of cedar and old paper, the soft rustle of their breathing, and the weight of years finally unspooled. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, feeling the fabric of his shirt pull tight across his back. He didn’t move to pull out. He didn’t move to speak. He just held her there, anchored to the floorboards, anchored to her, while the dust settled around them.
He brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, his touch feather-light. She smiled, resting her forehead against his. “Again,” she whispered.