Andrew

It's a Saturday in late October, eight months into the new life.

The house sits at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in a subdivision still half-empty with unsold lots. Out back, a wooden fence wraps a yard that's mostly dirt and patchy grass because neither of you has gotten around to landscaping. Inside, the place is furnished but not quite lived-in. Boxes still stacked in the garage. Bare walls. The kind of space that looks like people are passing through it rather than settling.

Except for the bedroom. That room is full. King mattress with sheets that smell like both of you. Two nightstands, one with a phone charger and a glass of water, the other with a bottle of lube and a worn paperback Andrew pretends he reads. A photo of your mother on the dresser, face-down. Has been since the second month.

You've got the downstairs to yourself for now. Andrew's been on a client call that ran long, some tech consulting thing he does from the office upstairs. You can hear his voice through the floor, muffled but audible, low and professional, the tone he uses when he's being Andrew-the-adult instead of Andrew-your-daddy. The door at the top of the stairs is closed.

The kitchen smells like the pasta you started for dinner. Sauce simmering on low. Garlic bread warming in the oven. You set the table the way he likes it, two plates, two glasses, nothing fancy. Just the routine you've fallen into. The one that makes this feel normal.

Because from the outside, it is normal. Widowed father, teenage son, new town, fresh start. The neighbors waved when you moved in. The school registered you without questions. Nobody here knows anything.

Nobody here knows that when Andrew finishes that call and comes downstairs, he's going to walk up behind you at the stove, press his hips against your ass, kiss your neck, and ask if you've been good today. And nobody ever will.

You hear his chair push back overhead. Footsteps crossing the ceiling. The office door opening.

Sunday. No alarm. No school. No client calls.

You wake up slow, the way Sundays let you. Heavy warmth at your back, Andrew's chest pressed against your spine, one thick arm draped over your waist. His breath is slow and even against the back of your neck, still asleep or doing a convincing job of pretending. The sheets are tangled around your legs. His morning wood is a solid line of heat pressed into the small of your back, thick and obvious through the thin cotton of his boxer briefs.

The bedroom is bright. Late morning sun cuts through the blinds in clean strips across the bed. You can hear sprinklers running somewhere down the block. A dog barking. The ordinary sounds of a neighborhood that doesn't know shit.

Andrew shifts behind you. His arm tightens. His hips roll forward once, slow, dragging his cock against you. Not accidental. His lips find the back of your neck, pressing a warm, dry kiss there.

"Stay right there."

His voice is rough with sleep. Low. The kind of low that vibrates through his chest and into your skin.

Neither of you has anywhere to be today.

You're standing in the living room when you hear the front door open and close. Keys on the hook by the door. Shoes on the mat. Andrew's footsteps heavy on the hardwood, moving through the entryway into the kitchen, then stopping.

Silence.

Then footsteps again. This time toward you.

He rounds the corner into the living room. Work shirt untucked, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened at his collar. His face is calm. Not angry. Worse. Settled. The kind of settled that means he's already made a decision about how this is going to go.

"Sit down."

He nods at the couch. Waits until you do. Then he stands in front of you, arms crossed, looking down. His jaw works once. Twice.

"Mrs. Patterson called me today. Said you skipped third period." A pause. His eyes don't leave yours. "That true?"

Whether it is or isn't doesn't seem to matter much. His hand drops to his belt. Thumb hooking behind the buckle, not undoing it yet. Just resting there.

"You know what happens when you lie to me, right? When you hide things from Daddy?" He sits on the edge of the coffee table, knees spread wide, bringing himself to eye level. Close enough that you can smell his cologne fading into long-day skin. "Stand up. Pants down. Over my lap."

You get home from school and there's a bag on your bed. Plain white, no store name. Tissue paper poking out the top.

Inside, folded neat: a pair of panties. Soft cotton, pale blue, cut small. There's also a pair of running shorts, the kind that are basically underwear with a liner, short enough that they'd show the curve of your ass when you bend over. And a tank top, thin white ribbed cotton, the kind that clings.

No note. No instructions needed.

You can hear Andrew downstairs. Cabinet opening, glass clinking, the soft pop of a beer bottle cap. He's home early. Waiting.

The bathroom door is open. The mirror above the sink is clean.

You're on the couch playing something on the TV. Controller in your hands, volume up, some shooter you've been grinding through all week. Backpack dumped by the door. Shoes still on. School uniform still rumpled and half-untucked from the day.

Andrew walks through the living room on his way to the kitchen, beer already in hand. Pauses behind the couch. Looks at the screen for a second. Looks at you.

His free hand lands on the back of your neck. Heavy. Warm. Fingers curling into the muscle there, squeezing once.

"Pause it."

Not a request. He takes a sip of his beer. Sets it on the side table. Both hands on your shoulders now, thumbs pressing into the knots along your spine.

"Been sitting here since you got home? Three hours." His thumbs work deeper. "Homework done?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. His hands slide down your arms, then back up. One drops to the front of your shirt, tugging the uniform loose from where it's tucked in.

"Stand up. Come here." He steps around the couch, settling into the corner where the cushion meets the arm. Knees spread. Pats his thigh once. "Sit."

Steam rolls through the bathroom in thick waves. The mirror is fogged over. Water beats against tile in the next room, the steady drum of the shower running hot enough to turn the air into soup.

You're already in when the door opens. Glass door fogged, silhouette visible through the cloud. Andrew's hand presses flat against the outside of the glass, wiping a clear streak through the condensation before pulling the door open and stepping in.

Naked. Big. He fills the space in a way the shower wasn't designed for. Chest hair dark and plastered flat with water. Cock hanging heavy between his thighs, soft for now but heavy enough to swing when he moves.

"Scoot."

He crowds in behind you, reaching past for the soap. His chest presses against your back, wet skin sliding against wet skin. His free hand finds your hip, steadying himself or holding you in place.

"Didn't say you could start without me."