“Dad, look at this place!” I bounced on the balls of my feet outside the hotel. “It’s exactly like the pictures.” Rain-slicked cobblestones glimmered under wrought-iron lamps, and the smell of fresh bread tangled with diesel fumes. Paris felt alive in a way our Chicago suburb never did.

Deacon chuckled, wrestling our suitcases onto the curb. “Easy, Angie. Let’s get checked in before you float away.” His triathlete shoulders flexed under his damp shirt. Eight years since Mom died, and he still moved like he could outrun grief. I watched his hands – knuckles scarred from fixing bikes, grip steady. My stomach did a weird little flip.

Our room overlooked a narrow street where flower boxes spilled red geraniums. Two queen beds hugged opposite walls. “I call window view!” I threw my duffel on the left bed. Dad just grunted, already unpacking his running shoes with military precision. The silence stretched. Normal. Comfortable. Until I pictured him kissing my forehead goodnight later. Where did that come from? My cheeks burned.

Over steak frites that evening, candlelight caught the silver threads in his stubble. “Best birthday gift ever, Dad.” I twirled my wine glass – my second, his concession to France. Warmth spread through me, loosening my tongue. “Remember teaching me to ride without training wheels? You ran alongside forever.” His eyes softened in that way that made my breath hitch. Just fatherly pride. Always just that. I drained my glass.

Later, brushing my teeth in the shared bathroom, I caught his reflection in the mirror. Shirtless, reading in bed, the ridge of muscle along his spine taut under lamplight. My pulse hammered against my ribs. I thought to myself, ‘Don’t be stupid, Angie.’ But the wine hummed louder than guilt. When I slipped into my silk pajamas – the ones with the plunging neckline – I left the top button undone.

He snapped his book shut as I padded to my bed. “Sleep well, kiddo.” His voice sounded strained. I pretended not to notice how he avoided looking directly at me.

“Dad?” I paused by his bed, the duvet clutched to my chest. The streetlight outside carved his profile in shadow – jaw tight, shoulders rigid. “Thank you. For ... everything.” Before courage failed, I leaned down and pressed my lips to his temple. His skin smelled like hotel soap and exhaustion. He froze. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. The silence screamed louder than anything I’d ever heard.

Morning brought croissants and forced cheer. We walked along the Seine, shoulders brushing on crowded bridges. “Look, Angie,” he pointed at Notre Dame, his voice carefully neutral. “The restoration.” But my gaze snagged on his hand resting near mine on the stone railing, the sun warming the fine hairs on his knuckles. Every accidental touch felt electric, stolen. At the Louvre, I pretended fascination with the Mona Lisa while secretly watching him study a sculpture – the intense focus in his eyes, the way his thumb absently traced his lower lip. Paris wasn’t just romantic; it felt like permission. The clink of champagne flutes at lunch, the shared laughter over a clumsy street performer, the way his arm protectively circled my waist in a jostling Métro car – each moment layered over the last, stoking a slow, terrifying heat low in my belly.

Sunset painted the sky lavender over Montmartre. We climbed the steps to Sacré-Cœur, breathless. Below us, the city sprawled like a glittering tapestry. “Mom would’ve loved this,” he murmured, the rawness in his voice unexpected. I slipped my hand into his. His fingers tightened instantly, painfully, then slowly relaxed, interlacing with mine. Not letting go. The warmth of his palm against mine, the solidity of him beside me, the dizzying height – it felt like standing on the edge of the world. My heart hammered against my ribs. ‘He knows. He feels it too.’ The unspoken truth hung thick between us, charged and fragile as the twilight. He didn’t look at me, just stared out at the city, our joined hands hidden in the shadow between us.

That evening, I emerged from the bathroom wearing the dress I had bought just for this night in Paris – midnight blue silk that clung to every curve, plunging dangerously low in front. Dad froze mid-tie adjustment, his reflection in the mirror going utterly still. His gaze snagged on the swell of my breasts before jerking away, a flush creeping up his neck. “Angie ... that’s quite the outfit.” His voice sounded thick, strained. Victory hummed under my skin. He saw me. Not his daughter. A woman.

Dinner at Le Jules Verne was a blur of candlelight and murmured French. I ordered champagne, letting my foot brush his calf under the linen tablecloth. He shifted, cleared his throat, talked too fast about the Eiffel Tower’s engineering. His eyes kept flicking to my neckline, then darting away like he’d been burned. Walking back along the Seine afterward, I wrapped both arms around his bicep, pressing close. His muscles tensed beneath his jacket. “Angie, ease up,” he muttered, but didn’t pull away. My head rested against his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent mixed with Parisian night air – expensive cologne and forbidden promise.

Back in the room, the silence crackled. He showered first, emerging in worn pajama bottoms, towel-drying his hair. “Big day tomorrow,” he announced too loudly, avoiding my eyes as he practically vaulted into his bed. I took my time in the shower, letting the steam curl around me, imagining his hands instead of mine. Slipping into sheer black lingerie beneath my robe, I padded out. He was already turned away, feigning sleep, his breathing unnaturally even. The bedside lamp cast harsh shadows. I waited, counting his breaths until they deepened into the ragged rhythm of genuine sleep.

My bare feet made no sound on the cool floorboards. I stood beside his bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest under the thin sheet. The scent of his shampoo, clean and masculine, filled my head. Trembling, I let my robe slip to the floor. The silk slid cool against my skin as I lifted the edge of his sheet. His eyelids didn’t flicker. Slowly, carefully, I slid in beside him, the mattress dipping under my weight. The heat radiating from his body was intense. I pressed my back against his, feeling the powerful muscles of his shoulders tense instantly beneath his thin t-shirt. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his breath paused a split second, a tiny, betraying gasp. He was awake. He knew. And he was letting me stay. My hand drifted back, fingertips tracing the hard line of his spine through the cotton, feather-light. His stillness felt like permission.

Turning onto my other side, I faced him. His profile was sharp against the faint city glow filtering through the curtains. My heart hammered against my ribs. Leaning in, I pressed my lips to the corner of his jaw, tasting salt and sleep. He remained rigid, eyes closed, breathing shallow. My lips trailed lower, finding the pulse point at the base of his throat. It hammered wildly against my mouth. I kissed it softly, then again, lingering. My hand slid hesitantly across his chest, over the pectoral muscle beneath the worn fabric. Still, he didn’t react. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. Only the frantic drumming of his heart beneath my palm betrayed him. My fingers drifted lower, brushing the hard ridge of his abdomen, tracing the defined lines beneath his shirt. He remained a statue, carved from tension and denial.

My lips brushed his earlobe. “Oh, daddy,” I breathed, the whisper barely audible, thick with longing and wine and years of suppressed ache. The words hung in the charged darkness. His eyes snapped open then, dark pools reflecting the dim light, locking onto mine. There was no surprise there. Only a raw, agonized conflict I recognized instantly – mirrored perfectly in the frantic pounding of my own heart. He hadn’t been asleep at all. He’d been waiting. Trapped. Wanting. His hand shot up, fingers wrapping around my wrist where it rested low on his stomach, not pushing me away, but anchoring me there. His grip was fierce, trembling. The silence stretched, taut as a wire, filled only by our ragged breathing. The city outside seemed to hold its breath.