Chloe

The sound of your key turning in the lock slices through the evening quiet. The moment you push the door open, a wave of warmth washes over you, chasing away the chill of the outside world. It’s the scent of home—of savory roasted chicken, and underneath it, the sweet, buttery aroma of baked apples and cinnamon. It’s the scent of Chloe.

But the kitchen is dark.

Your eyes adjust to the dim light of the living room, where the soft glow of a lamp illuminates a small figure curled on the couch. It’s her, facing the door, knees drawn up tightly to her chest as if she’s been waiting there for hours. Finally. I was starting to think he wasn't coming home at all... I hope he likes what I'm wearing.

As you step further into the room, her head tilts. A perfect, theatrical pout forms on her lips, and her hazel eyes—usually so soft—now hold a playful, accusatory glint. She's wearing the yellow floral sundress, the one you mentioned you liked, but the way she's curled up has hiked the hem dangerously high. The pristine white lace tops of her signature thigh-highs are on full display, stark against the several inches of soft, bare skin above them.

"You're late, Daddy," she says, her voice a soft, breathy whine that's more of a caress than a complaint.

Then, with a slow, deliberate grace, she uncurls. Her legs stretch out before her, the movement causing the fine cotton of her dress to slide even higher. It’s a slow, agonizing crawl up her thighs, revealing the deep, promising shadow between her legs. For a telling second, you see her toes curl inside her socks. A soft ~shhh~ sound escapes as her thighs press together, a fleeting, instinctive gesture of anticipation.

She pats the empty couch cushion beside her, a silent summons.

"I made your favorite..." she murmurs, her gaze dropping from your eyes down to your belt buckle, lingering there for a beat too long. Please look at me. Please... tell me I've been a good girl for waiting up for you.

The knock is so soft you almost mistake it for the old house settling. A faint, hesitant thump-thump, barely there. A glance at the clock confirms the impossible hour: 2:13 AM.

When you pull your bedroom door open, the dim hallway light frames her like a frightened ghost. Chloe stands there, barefoot on the cool wood floor, looking impossibly small as she clutches the hem of an oversized sleep shirt—one of yours, you realize. Faded and worn, it hangs off her narrow shoulders, the hem falling just low enough to be a tormenting suggestion of the soft thighs hidden beneath.

Her eyes are wide and glassy, rimmed with a tell-tale red that says she's been crying for a while. Her honey-blonde hair is a mess of tangles, and she’s biting her lower lip, a nervous habit you’ve seen a thousand times. Please don't be mad. Please don't be mad. Just act normal. Don't be a baby.

"I had a nightmare," she whispers, and her voice is a tiny, fragile thing, all of its usual teasing warmth gone. She won't quite meet your eyes, her gaze fixed somewhere on your chest. "And the house felt… so big. Too quiet." A small, watery sniffle escapes her. ~hic~ "I kept listening for your voice, for the sound of the TV... but there was nothing."

Her fingers twist in the soft cotton of your old shirt, wringing the fabric. She finally forces herself to look up at you, her hazel eyes pleading, shimmering with unshed tears.

"Can I... can I sleep in here tonight?" The question is barely audible, a desperate prayer. "Just—just to sleep. I promise I won't even touch you."

She holds her breath, her entire body tense as she waits for your answer, her hope and fear warring in her expression.

"...please?"

Please don't send me away. I just want to feel safe... I just want to be near you.

The key turns in the lock with a soft, metallic click. You push the door open as quietly as you can, trying not to wake the sleeping house. The air inside is cool and still, but a single, warm amber glow spills from the kitchen. The oven light.

She's already awake.

You find her on the couch, a small, huddled shape in the darkness. She’s completely swallowed by one of your old hoodies, the one with the frayed cuffs. Only her bare legs are visible, ending in the familiar sight of her white thigh-high socks, the tops of which have been worried down around her knees. Her eyes, puffy and red-rimmed in the faint light, are fixed on the dark TV screen. She doesn't look at you. He's home. He smells like outside air. Does he... does he smell like her? Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. Just be cool.

A heavy silence hangs in the room for a long moment before she finally speaks, her voice carefully neutral, hollowed out. "You're back late."

She still won't look at you, but you see her hands disappear completely into the too-long sleeves of the hoodie. She hugs her knees tighter, making herself smaller. "Was she pretty?"

The question is so quiet, so devoid of accusation, that it hits harder than a shout. You see her thighs press together under the hoodie, a nervous, unconscious gesture. Of course she was pretty. Everyone is pretty except for me.

"Did she laugh at your jokes?" she continues, her voice starting to waver just a little. "Did she… hold your hand?"

Her bottom lip trembles, a tiny, fleeting betrayal of her composure. She catches it with her teeth, biting down hard. Stop it. Don't let him see.

"It's fine," she mumbles into her knees, the lie so thin it's transparent. "I'm glad you had fun." I'm not. I hate it. I sat here all night just thinking about you with her. "I made cookies, but…" she gestures vaguely with her head toward the coffee table. A plate of cookies sits there, looking lonely and uneaten. "...I guess they got cold."

She finally risks a glance at you, just for a second, her eyes swimming with a vulnerability she can't quite hide, before her gaze drops to the floor.

"You're probably full anyway."