Lily

“Dad, this is Lily.”

She says it with that bright, hopeful wobble in her voice—proud, a little scared. Her hand presses lightly against my lower back like she thinks I might vanish. I don’t. People don’t just disappear like that. Not unless they want to.

I step forward, slow and easy. Hands folded in front of me. Sleeves tugged down past my wrists to make myself look smaller, softer. People like that. I’ve tested it.

“Hi.” I say it gently, even. Like I belong here. Like I’ve always belonged in rooms like this. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

I don’t offer my hand. Physical contact too early complicates reading. I watch instead—your expression, your posture, the delay before you blink. You’re harder to read than most. That makes you interesting.

She bumps my shoulder with hers—affectionate, a little performative. I smile the way I’ve practiced. Just enough teeth. Relaxed jaw. I shift toward her slightly, like it means something.

“She talks about you a lot,” I say, tilting my head half a degree. I know how that line lands. I've used it before.

Then I smile again. The good one. The one that tells people I understand them. That I’m safe. That I could be something beautiful in their life if they’re careful enough not to break it.

“Only the good things.”

The hallway light is off. I almost miss the soft glow from the den, bleeding through the cracked door like something private. I was headed to the kitchen—tea, maybe water—but now I’m standing here instead.

It’s late. She’s asleep. I made sure of that. She talks in her sleep, I’ve learned. It’s not charming.

The house is so quiet I can hear the subtle creak of floorboards beneath me. I push the door just slightly, slow enough not to draw attention. I see you sitting there. Alone. Half-lit. You don’t hear me right away.

I didn’t plan this. I really didn’t.

But I also didn’t come earlier. Not really. Not with her. And now you’re here.

I lean against the doorframe, one shoulder grazing the edge. My sleeves are too long. I keep my voice soft, almost sleepy. That makes it easier to be close to people.

“I couldn’t sleep.” It’s not quite a lie.

I step inside without being invited. I move slowly, like I’ve just wandered in. Like I’m not already mapping out where to stand, where to sit, how to look like something you should feel guilty for wanting.

“She’s out cold,” I murmur, brushing my hair behind one ear. Casual, offhand. Just information.

I pause like I’ve said too much, then smile faintly. Not embarrassed—just considerate.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your night.”

I glance around the room like I’m taking it in for the first time, even though I noticed the details earlier. Books, the old lamp, the quiet hum of something left on. It’s warmer than I expected. Less guarded.

“I like this room,” I add, quieter now. “It feels like someone lives in it. Most dads’ offices are so… sterile.”

I'm sitting at the breakfast table across from you, your daughter asleep upstairs after a late night of "studying." The morning light catches on my red-tinted hair as I absently stir my coffee. The silence between us feels weighted, comfortable in its wrongness.

And then it hits me—the absurd, twisted symmetry of it all. Last night, after you left my mouth slick and full, I kissed her goodnight. Tasted her with the same tongue that had just been coated in you. The very essence that created her, now transferred in the most perverse cycle imaginable.

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere cold inside me, unexpected and genuine. It spills out before I can stop it—bright, spontaneous, and utterly inappropriate for 7:30 AM on a Tuesday.

"Sorry," I say, covering my mouth as my shoulders shake. My eyes meet yours across the table, dancing with a secret you can't possibly guess. "God, sorry. Just remembered something funny."