Dust motes danced in the shaft of light cutting through the attic gloom, settling on the glossy faces of the photographs we'd spilled from the album. The heavy leather book lay splayed open on the rug, pages still fanned out like a deck of memories. My cheek pressed against the wool of his trousers, the fabric creased from where he'd shifted to claim the floor. A shiver of satisfaction rolled through my ribs as his breath evened against my neck. We'd dragged the bookcase aside, leaving our clothes in a heap near the dormer window, our sweat mingling with the dry scent of attic dust and the sharp tang of old paper.
His knuckles dragged through the tangles of my hair, a slow, rhythmic stroke that worked the tension from my scalp. The air was thick, heavy with the musk of our joining, but the silence felt earned. Neither of us moved to dress. The quiet hum of the house settling above us was the only sound, punctuated by the rustle of a page turning as he brushed a stray lock behind my ear.
I pushed myself up on one elbow, the movement drawing his gaze. My palm skimmed the carpet until it met the cool edge of a glossy square. I lifted the photograph. The image showed me barely a year old, swaddled in a knit blanket the color of cream. His hands supported my back, his face bent over mine. His gaze didn't waver from the lens, intense and unblinking, capturing a hunger that looked out of place on a father's face.
"Everywhere we go," I murmured, the words catching in my throat. "You were always watching."
He plucked the picture from my fingers, his calloused thumb smearing a faint smudge across the image. "I remember the weight of you. The day you were born, you wouldn't let go of my finger." He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "I've been waiting in the wings, sweetheart. Watching you grow. Keeping you safe. But wanting you. For years."
The admission hung between us, simple and absolute. I pressed my mouth to the column of his throat, tasting salt. "Don't let go now."
A low hum vibrated in his chest, resonating against my lips. His hand slid around my waist, fingers splaying over my hip to anchor me. The warmth of his body radiated through his shirt, a steady burn against my cooling skin. I let my hand wander, mapping the hard ridge of his collarbone, the dip of his sternum, the curve where his shirt rode up to reveal the flat plane of his belly.
Near my knee, a stack of yearbooks rested, their spines cracked from use. 1998. 1999. 2000. I reached for the nearest volume, flipping it open to a page where I stood in a graduation gown, smiling at the camera. "You were there," I whispered, tracing the glossy surface. "In the background. Even here."
He nodded, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Always. I found a spot. I took my place." He turned the photo over, reading his own handwriting. *Sarah, 6 months.* "I kept you close. I made sure no one else got too close, either."
The carpet felt rough against my bare knee. I shifted, scattering a few more photos from the album's edge. A candid of me at five, laughing with cake on my face. A shot of me at twelve, awkward and tall, looking down from the porch. Each one captured his presence, a silent sentinel in the frame.
"You're sitting on the good memories," he murmured, catching my wrist before I could pull the rug tighter. His grip was firm, guiding my hand back to his chest. "I'd rather be on top of you."
"They're already under you," I countered, a small smile playing on my lips.
He chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his throat. "True. But I prefer the view from here."
I settled back against his thigh, the leather of the album cool against my side. The scent of vanilla from his cologne had long since faded, replaced by the earthy aroma of the attic and the lingering sweetness of our skin. I picked up a loose thread from the rug, twisting it around my finger. "Do you remember when you first knew?"
"When the doctor handed you over," he said without hesitation. "The moment I saw you. But the wanting... that grew. It started as protectiveness. Then it became a need. I watched you learn to walk, to talk, to smile. I watched you become the woman I'd dreamed of, step by step."
He ran his hand down my side, stopping at the curve of my hip. "I waited for the right time. For you to be ready. To be big enough to hold me back."
I looked down at the scattered images, a mosaic of my life spread across the rug. We were surrounded by our past, yet here we were, tangled in the present. The photos seemed to breathe, the faces in them shifting as if they were watching us too, bearing witness to the secret that had lived among them all along.
"I'm ready," I whispered.
He leaned in, his lips brushing my forehead. "Good."