Chapter 3: Comfort Turns Dangerous

The next evening the house felt heavier, like the air itself remembered every whispered word from the kitchen at 1 a.m. Mom had kissed Dad’s cheek on her way out to book club again, her usual breezy “Don’t wait up,” hanging between us like a lie we all pretended not to notice. I watched her taillights disappear down the street from the upstairs window, heart already racing. Dad had barely spoken to me all day—just quiet nods over coffee, eyes shadowed with the same wrecked exhaustion I’d seen when he cried against my chest. He’d disappeared into his study after dinner, door cracked the way it always was when he didn’t want to be fully alone.

I stood outside that door in my thin cotton shorts and soft tank top, bare feet curling against the hardwood. The memory of his thick heat pressed to my thigh last night still burned low in my belly. I was supposed to hate him. I was supposed to confront him properly. Instead my body hummed with something I couldn’t name, slick and restless every time I replayed the way he’d called me his good girl.

I knocked softly and pushed the door open.

He sat at the big oak desk, shoulders slumped, salt-and-pepper hair tousled like he’d been dragging his hands through it for hours. The desk lamp cast warm light across his bare forearms, the compass tattoo stark against tanned skin. No shirt yet—just loose gray boxers and the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the ever-present trace of garage grease that clung to him like a second skin.

“You look wrecked, Dad,” I said gently, stepping inside. “Let me rub your shoulders like I used to when you came home from work. Remember? Before everything got ... complicated.”

He lifted his head, eyes dark and tired but softening the instant they found mine. A ghost of the old smile tugged at his mouth. “You sure, babygirl? After last night...”

“I’m sure.” My voice barely shook. “You need it.”

He exhaled, long and slow, then stood and peeled off the faded T-shirt he’d thrown on that morning. The sight hit me like it always did—broad chest dusted with dark hair, powerful shoulders corded from years of hauling lumber, the faint lines at his waist where construction work had carved him strong instead of soft. He sank back into the leather chair, rolling his neck with a wince.

I moved behind him, heart hammering. My hands settled on his shoulders first—warm, living skin under my palms, tight knots bunched beneath. He groaned the second I started kneading, low and grateful, the sound vibrating straight down my spine. “God, Emma ... just like that.”