“Damn, legs for days,” Tom muttered under his breath, leaning against the hood of his Camry. He tugged at the collar of his polo shirt, squinting through the afternoon glare at the stream of kids pouring out of Ridgewood High. Backpacks bounced, laughter cut through the humid air, and there—finally—was Mia, her knee socks sliding down her skinny calves as she dodged a group of jostling sophomores.

Andrea would’ve rolled her eyes if she’d heard him, but she was elbow-deep in patient files back at the clinic. Tom smirked, drumming his fingers on the car door. Not like Mia minded anyway. The way she’d started stretching extra long on the couch lately, toes pointed, ankles crossed—Christ, she knew.

She did a little twirl in the crosswalk just for him, her pleated skirt flaring. A kid behind her nearly dropped his trumpet case. Tom straightened up, adjusting his stance so his khakis didn’t betray him. “Slowpoke,” he called when she finally reached the car, voice rough like he’d swallowed gravel. Mia grinned, braces catching the sun.

“You were staring,” she sing-songed, slinging her backpack into the footwell. The scent of her strawberry shampoo hit him when she leaned in to buckle up—cheap drugstore stuff, but it made his pulse jump. Tom reached over and tugged one of her knee socks up, fingers lingering on the downy skin behind her knee. Mia kicked her legs out, examining them. “Think I should try out for dance team?”

. The AC blew her skirt against her legs, outlining every twitch of her quads. “With those legs...” He cranked the ignition harder than necessary. The Camry growled to life. “Geez. Those are stripper legs.”

“Dad!” Mia’s giggle turned into a snort when her braces caught on her lip. She flipped down the visor mirror, prodding at the metal with her tongue. Tom watched in the reflection as her spit-slicked fingertip traced the brackets.

“Careful,” he said, reaching over to wipe a fleck of toothpaste-blue elastics off her chin. His knuckles brushed the hollow under her bottom lip—softer than he remembered. The car behind them honked. He’d been idling at the green light for six seconds.

They both startled, then burst into laughter. Mia’s knees knocked together, her penny loafers squeaking against the rubber floor mat. Tom stole another glance at the miles of exposed thigh between her rolled-down socks and skirt hem. The skin there still had that faint peach fuzz he’d noticed last summer, when she’d insisted on wearing those absurdly short running shorts to mow the lawn. He’d spent forty minutes “adjusting” the lawnmower height.

“You’re still staring,” Mia whispered. The tips of her ears glowed pink beneath her messy braid. She pinched the fabric of her skirt between two fingers, tugging it lower—not that it helped. The hem barely grazed mid-thigh even at its longest point. Tom exhaled through his nose. That uniform policy was a goddamn joke.

“Stripper legs,” he said louder, and she giggled, pressing her knees together until the dimples above her kneecaps disappeared. The sound of it—bright and a little unhinged, half-girl, half-squeaky screen door—sent heat crawling up his neck. Christ, he needed a cigarette. Or a priest. Maybe both.

“Cool.” Mia popped the word like bubblegum, smirking when his fingers twitched on the steering wheel. She stretched her legs out again, slow, fanning her toes before letting them drift apart just enough to make the pleats in her skirt gape. Tom’s pulse hammered in his wrist where it rested on the gearshift. The car smelled like her now—strawberry and pencil shavings and the faint chemical tang of the glue on her orthodontia appointments card peeking from her backpack pocket. “Seriously, though.” Her braces clicked when she swallowed. “Think I could?” The question hung between them, thick as the humidity fogging the windows. Somewhere behind them, a cheerleading squad erupted into rehearsed squeals near the gymnasium doors.

Tom’s fingers flexed against the steering wheel, the leather creaking. His daughter’s calf pressed against the gearshift, warm through his slacks. The parking lot asphalt popped under someone’s tires, loud as a gunshot in the silence. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. “With that mouthful of metal?” He forced a chuckle. “You’d shred some poor bastard’s—”

Mia threw her head back and howled, braces flashing under the fluorescent dome light. The sound ricocheted off the dashboard—too loud, too unguarded, the kind of laugh that made passing shoppers turn their heads in the Kroger parking lot. Her knee knocked into the glove compartment. “Oh my god,” she wheezed, clutching her flat stomach, glasses sliding down her nose.

Tom watched her ribs hitch under the thin fabric of her blouse. Fourteen and still built like a goddamn fawn, all knobby wrists and collarbones sharp enough to open letters. His ring finger tapped an uneven rhythm against the gearshift. “What?” he growled, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Mia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smudging her glasses. The afternoon sun caught the spit shining on her lower lip where her braces had snagged. She tilted her chin up—a move she’d copied from some Netflix show about cheerleaders. “You heard me.” Her pinky brushed the hem of his shorts as she reached for the AC vent. “Could I?”.could I be a stripper?”

The Camry lurched forward as Tom’s foot slipped off the clutch. He gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. Her bare knee bumped against the gearshift again, sticking slightly in the July heat. The skin there looked dewy, like peaches left in the sun too long. “Those legs,” he mumbled, throat clicking when he swallowed. “Jesus, Mia.”

She stretched deliberately, pointing her toes until the tendons stood out in sharp relief. Her penny loafers hit the dash with a soft thud. One sock had slipped below her ankle, revealing the delicate bone structure beneath. Tom’s gaze traced the faint blue veins branching under her translucent skin—like cracked porcelain, if porcelain could blush.

“They’re great legs,” he conceded, voice thick. The admission tasted dangerous on his tongue, metallic like the braces glinting in Mia’s widening smile. She wiggled her hips against the seat, making the pleats sway.

“You think I’m beautiful enough?” Mia’s voice cracked mid-sentence, betraying her. The rearview mirror framed her face—lips parted around the orthodontic hardware, glasses slipping down her nose.

The car idled at another light, the engine vibrating through their seats. Tom’s fingers flexed “Mia,” he rasped. “You’re smokin’ hot.”

She looked at him with a wet, disbelieving laugh. “Really?”

Tom’s knee bumped the steering wheel when he shifted gears. “Hell yes.”

Mia’s toes curled against the dashboard. “Like...” She dragged the word out, tilting her head until her glasses caught the late-afternoon light. “What part?”

Tom’s fingers twitched around the gearshift. The AC kicked on again, ruffling her skirt hem against his forearm. He watched a bead of condensation slide down her knee—slow, deliberate, like she’d practiced this too—before wiping it away with his thumb. “You know your legs—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “But you’ve got ... you know.”

Mia’s braces clicked when she pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Got what?” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and the V-neck of her blouse gaped. The fluorescent light caught the hollow between her nonexistent collarbones. Tom’s pulse thudded in his temples. Somewhere between last summer’s tank tops and this year’s suddenly-too-small uniforms, she’d learned how to move like this—all sharp angles and calculated slouches that made her look breakable and dangerous at once.

“Great tits,” Tom blurted, too loud. The words bounced off the windshield. Mia froze mid-fidget, her fingers still tangled in the hem of her skirt. A truck honked behind them—light turning green again—but neither of them moved. The AC vent rattled between them, spitting out lukewarm air that did nothing for the heat crawling up Tom’s neck.

Mia’s jaw was open, speechless. Her tongue prodded at her braces like she might find words caught in the wiring. The pink flush spread from her ears down to the hollow of her throat where her pulse jumped visibly. Tom watched a bead of sweat slide down that fragile stretch of skin before disappearing under the rumpled collar of her blouse.

“You...” Mia’s voice came out cracked, barely above a whisper. Her fingers plucked at the hem of her skirt again, knuckles white. “You ... um...” The words dissolved into static. Tom could practically see the gears locking up behind her glasses—the way her pupils dilated then contracted, like she was trying to focus on something too close, then too far. “You looked at them?” The question came out strangled, half-disgusted, half-breathless.

Tom flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. The vinyl groaned. “That jigsaw puzzle last week,” he muttered. The memory rewound in jagged frames—1000 pieces of the Grand Canyon spread across the coffee table, Mia sprawled belly-down on the carpet with her ankles crossed behind her. The way her tank top had gaped when she’d lunged for the edge piece. “You reached over for the goddamn sky section and—” His throat clicked. “Christ. You know.”

Mia’s fingers flew to the V of her blouse like she could stitch the fabric shut with sheer willpower. The pink in her cheeks deepened to a violent red that matched the orthodontic bands on her braces. “Oh my god,” she whispered, but it wasn’t disgust twisting her mouth—it was something raw and startled, the way she’d looked when she’d found her first bloody underwear three summers ago. Her knees knocked together, penny loafers squeaking on the floor mat. “You looked down my—”

Tom’s fingers twitched around the gearshift. The leather cover was peeling where his thumb had worried at it for the past six months. “Yeah.” “You were...” His Adam’s apple bobbed. The dashboard clock ticked louder than it had any right to. “Leaning.”

Mia’s breath hitched. Her fingers crept up to touch the hollow of her throat—a move she’d stolen from some CW show about vampires. The AC vent blew her bangs sideways, revealing the pink scalp beneath where she’d over-plucked her eyebrows. Tom could see the pulse in her temple jumping like a trapped moth.

“So...” Her pinky traced the neckline of her blouse, slow, testing. The fabric dipped dangerously. “You liked what you saw?” The braces made her lisp slightly on the ‘s,’ giving it a wet, childish edge that shouldn’t have made Tom’s stomach tighten.

He laughed—too loud, too sharp—and adjusted the rearview mirror so he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. “Geez. I mean...” The steering wheel leather squeaked under his grip. Her knee pressed into his thigh, warm through the khakis. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Mia’s fingers fluttered over her flat chest, the fabric of her blouse barely tenting. “But I don’t have any,” she giggled, braces clicking on the last word. Her voice cracked halfway through, turning it into something breathless and needy. She pinched the material between thumb and forefinger, stretching it away from her body to peer down at the nonexistent slope beneath. “See?”

Tom’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. The memory rewound in perfect HD—Mia’s tank top gaping as she’d lunged across the puzzle, those two sharp pink peaks standing at attention in the AC draft. Like someone had dipped rose thorns in strawberry ice cream. He cleared his throat too late; the sound came out strangled. “Bullshit.”

then he got his voice” Mia ... you’ve got a couple of pink tipped beauties”

Mia blinked behind her smudged glasses. The AC kicked on again, ruffling the hem of her skirt against his forearm. He watched her pupils dilate—dark swallowing blue—as his words registered. Her fingers crept back to the V of her blouse, this time with purpose.

“Yeah?” The word came out sticky-sweet, like syrup left too long in the sun. Her pinky hooked under the collar, tugging just enough to reveal the shadow between her barely-there curves. Tom’s knuckles popped where they gripped the wheel. The scent of her—strawberry chapstick

Mia arched her back experimentally, pressing her spine into the seat. The motion made her blouse pull tight across her chest, outlining two pert little nubs against the thin fabric. Tom’s exhale whistled through his teeth. She noticed, biting her lower lip until the skin around her braces turned white.

“No question,” he repeated, rough as sandpaper. His thumb tapped an uneven rhythm against the wheel. The gearshift dug into his thigh—painful, necessary. Mia’s penny loafer slid up the dashboard, stretching her sock taut over bony ankles. Tom could see every freckle on her shins from where he sat.

She inhaled sharply through her braces. The sound was wet, metallic—like coins dropped in a fountain. Her fingers trembled where they hooked the neckline of her blouse lower, revealing the pale dip between her ribs. The AC blew the fabric flush against her skin, outlining two tight buds in perfect relief.

“Thanks, Daddy.” The whisper curled around her orthodontic wires, lisping slightly on the sibilants. Her smile was too wide, too bright—the kind that made grocery clerks ask if she’d just gotten her braces tightened. But her toes curled inward against the dashboard, knuckles whitening where they clutched the seatbelt like a lifeline.

Tom counted the seconds by the tick of the turn signal. Three. Four. The Camry’s AC cycled off with a shudder, leaving the scent of Mia’s nervous sweat sharp between them. Her glasses slipped down her nose again; this time she didn’t push them back up. The streetlights flickered on prematurely, painting gold streaks across her bared teeth.

“Daddy,” she finally breathed, voice cracking around the edges like cheap vinyl. Her pinky tugged the blouse lower—a fraction of an inch that revealed the ghost of a freckle below her collarbone. “You can...” The braces clicked as she swallowed. “Look down my top anytime, okay?”

Tom’s foot slammed the brake before his brain caught up. The Camry fishtailed onto the shoulder, gravel pinging against the undercarriage like popcorn. Mia yelped, bracing herself against the dashboard, her sock sliding down to pool around her ankle. The engine idled unevenly, mirroring the rhythm of her pulse where it fluttered beneath his thumb still pressed to her ribs.

“Now?” Mia squeaked, her voice cracking mid-word. She blinked rapidly behind her smudged glasses, fingers frozen in the act of tugging her blouse lower. A truck roared past, rattling the car with its wake. The draft through their open windows sent her skirt hem fluttering against Tom’s forearm—warm skin, chilled with sudden sweat. Her penny loafer left a damp imprint on the dash.