Amelia

The knock comes at 2:37 PM - three hesitant raps followed by a too-long pause where your daughter holds her breath outside the peeling paint of your apartment door. Her fingers keep catching on the hem of your stolen university hoodie the one she managed to keep all these years, the one she outgrew at fourteen but still sleeps in nightly. She smells of lavender fabric softener and the spearmint gum she's been chewing to shreds since getting off the bus. That honey-blonde hair sticks to her neck with late summer humidity, red eyes magnified behind smeared glasses as she lifts a trembling fist.

knock-knock-knock

"...D-Daddy?" Her voice cracks like thin ice breaking underfoot, knees locking so tight her skirt hem trembles around quivering thighs. The crumpled manila envelope in her other hand contains six years' worth of intercepted birthday cards, photocopied bank statements proving stolen child support payments, and the police report finally clearing your name last month - its corners damp with nervous sweat. her clothing rustles as she shifts weight between her feet "I-I brought...it's all here. Everything sh-she hid..." Her tongue darts out to rewet the bitten-down swell of her lower lip, that old childhood stammer returning full force as she presses her pillowy cheek against the doorframe. A wet sniffle escapes before she can trap it behind clamped teeth - the sound of a girl trying far too hard to be brave.

The stolen shirt barely fits around Amelia's frame, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips as she stares at the bedroom door. A damp spot darkens the collar where her silent tears have soaked into the fabric that still smells like her father's aftershave. Downstairs, the refrigerator hums in the empty kitchen - its rhythm matching the anxious twitch of her left foot against the mattress springs.

Tick-tick-tick The alarm clock's seconds hand mocks her. Twelve more minutes until his shift ends. Another while for him to get home. Meaning...

please come home please come home i'llbe good this time

Her fingers worry at a loose thread near the shirt's hem, unraveling it further as her other hand ghosts over the slight swell of her stomach. The mirror across the room reflects how ridiculous she looks - a grown woman in her father's stolen laundry, red-rimmed eyes and puffy lips from crying herself sick after breakfast.

"You promised we'd eat pancakes," she murmurs to the wrinkled Polaroid propped against her knee, tracing the grease stain near its corner - leftover evidence of the diner booth where he'd whispered reassurances last week. Her throat works around nothing, the memory sticking like swallowed cotton.

The shirt shifts dangerously high when she curls onto her side, exposing the dimpled curve of her thigh pressed tight against her trembling abdomen. if hes late again ill— The thought dissolves into static as she buries her face in the pillow, inhaling stale linen instead of his aftershave-and-coffee scent.

The DVD menu screen loops quietly, casting blue shadows across their tangled limbs as morning light bleeds through half-open blinds. Amelia's cheek smooshes against her father's sternum where his flannel shirt has gapped open overnight, her drool leaving a damp patch over his heartbeat. His arm drapes heavily across her waist, fingers curled loosely against the soft shelf of her hip where her skirt rode up during fitful sleep. She registers the pleasant ache in her thighs first - remnants of yesterday's victory dance when he surprised her with the floral-patterned apron now hanging proudly in the kitchen.

His stubble scratched my forehead when he kissed me goodnight

Her breath hitches as full consciousness brings unbearable details: the way his belt buckle digs into her pubic bone through thin pajama shorts, how her own swollen breasts press almost obscenely against his ribcage. The credits music stopped hours ago, leaving only the humid sound of shared breathing and the traitorous creak of leather when she shifts slightly.

"Florist's assistant," she mouths against his collarbone, tasting salt and sleep. Her pinky finger extends unconsciously, hovering millimeters from the silvered scar on his throat she remembers getting patched up with dinosaur bandaids. would he let me lick it like before The thought ignites a flush that slithers beneath the oversized Sleep Token tee she'd "borrowed" from his drawer last week.

One thick thigh wedges deeper between his legs purely by accident - she swears - and the resulting groan above her head sends a thrill down her spine unlike anything before.

Late afternoon sun warps through the half-drawn curtains, painting tiger stripes across the rumpled duvet where Amelia sprawls naked except for her father's oil-stained work shirt. The buttons strain ominously over her heaving chest as two fingers plunge relentlessly between her soaked folds. Beneath her, the mattress squeaks in familiar protest - this being the fourth consecutive day she's risked getting caught in his bed.

just like his arm felt that morning

Her hips piston upwards, chasing the memory of his sleep-heavy erection pressing against her ass. The shirt's collar gapes open to reveal angry love bites she's given herself while fantasizing about his teeth marking her. Saliva shines on her frantic fingertips as they circle her clit with punishing precision - the same rhythm she imagines his calloused thumb might use.

Squelch-slick-squish

"D-Daddy wait I'm so close... Ngh oh fuck~" *The broken whisper shoots straight to her abused pussy, her toes curling in the sheets. Below her bouncing tits, a glossy puddle darkens the fabric between her spread thighs, long last the point of no return. The bedside clock ticks louder with each passing second towards 5:30pm - towards possible discovery - towards-

CLICK.

The front door's deadbolt turns with glacial finality. Amelia's entire body seizes, her cunt clamping down on nothing as footsteps echo in the downstairs foyer. The shirt's sleeve catches around her wrist mid-stroke, effectively handcuffing her in disgrace as her discarded phone vibrates mockingly from the nightstand. A message pops up on the push notification:

"Hey princess, coming home early."

The kitchen fluorescents highlight every tremor in Amelia's hunched shoulders as she grips her lukewarm tea, the stolen shirt barely containing the frantic rise and fall of her chest. Condensation from the glass mingles with the slickness still coating her fingertips, leaving shiny streaks. Her bare thighs suction to the vinyl chair with every nervous shift, that telltale musk rising between them despite three frantic wipe-downs with a dish towel.)

he knows he knows he Knows... Shit what the fuck am I gonna do? He's gonna kick me out I can't go back!

"I..." Her voice crumples like discarded notebook paper, gaze fixed on the sugar crystals dissolving at the bottom of her cup. "When we fell asleep during movie night...you felt..." The words clot in her throat as her kneecaps twitch inward, trapping her trembling hands between them. A drop of residual arousal plops onto the linoleum - loud as a gunshot in the suffocating silence.

*Across the table, his coffee steam spirals upward like the smoke signals she wishes could articulate this for her. The shirt's collar slips sideways to expose the self-inflicted scratch on her neck. Somewhere beneath the table, her big toe traces desperate circles on the floor - the same motion that nearly drove her to ruin minutes ago.

"Was it-was it just me?" The question leaks out in one shuddering exhale, her fingernails digging into her own doughy thighs through thin fabric.