Andy wiped sweat from his brow as he flipped pancakes. The sizzle filled the kitchen, mixing with the scent of maple syrup. Morning light streamed through the window, catching dust motes dancing above the stove. He hummed an off-key tune, thinking about their weekend basketball plans.

The sliding door hissed open abruptly. Jenny shuffled in, yawning wide enough to crack her jaw. “Morning, Dad,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. She padded across the cool tile floor toward the fridge, completely oblivious.

Andy froze mid-pancake flip. The spatula slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the stovetop as his gaze locked onto his daughter. Jenny wore impossibly tight lycra shorts—so sheer and brief they might as well have been painted on—revealing every contour of her narrow hips and the startlingly bare cleft between her legs. Her thin cotton tee clung to her completely flat chest, no bra beneath, the fabric puckering softly over small nipples. Her feet were bare, toes flexing against the grout lines.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away. The shock wasn’t just the near-nudity—it was the casualness. She stretched languidly by the fridge, the movement making her shorts ride even higher, exposing the pale curve where buttock met thigh. Andy’s knuckles whitened around the skillet handle. His throat tightened as his gaze traced the smooth, shaved mound pressing against the flimsy fabric. Heat flooded his face, a confusing mix of paternal alarm and something darker, more visceral. But he kept looking ... gladly kept looking ... enjoying the view.

Jenny grabbed the orange juice carton, humming softly. She turned, catching his stare head-on. Her eyes widened briefly—not in embarrassment, but surprise. “Dad?” She tilted her head, setting the carton on the counter with a soft thud. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.” Her fingers brushed against her hipbone where the shorts cut deep, the fabric stretched taut over sharp pelvic ridges. She didn’t move to cover herself; her stance remained loose, natural. The morning light caught the fine blonde fuzz on her calves.

Andy swallowed hard, the pancake batter bubbling violently beside him. He forced his gaze upward to her face—her familiar freckled nose, her sleep-tousled ponytail. “Just ... tired,” he managed, voice gravelly. His knuckles ached from gripping the skillet. The scent of burning butter filled his nostrils, sharp and acrid. He should say something. Tell her to put on sweatpants. But his mouth felt glued shut as his eyes flickered back down, tracing the sheer fabric clinging between her thighs.

Jenny poured juice slowly, the liquid glugging into her glass. She watched him over the rim—not accusingly, but with a curious tilt to her lips. The silence stretched, thick and electric. Her bare foot tapped lightly on the tile, drawing his attention to the delicate arch. When she finally spoke, it was soft, deliberate. “You keep staring, Dad.” A statement. Not angry. Not shy. Observant. Her thumb rubbed idly along the hem of her shorts, pulling the elastic even tighter against her hip bone. The fabric whispered against skin.

Andy’s knuckles popped as he loosened his death-grip on the skillet handle. He cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet kitchen. The smell of charred pancake batter was sharp now. “Caught me,” he admitted, his voice rough like gravel dragged over pavement. He didn’t try to look away again. His gaze stayed fixed on her, tracing the impossible tightness of the lycra shorts, the way they vanished into the cleft where her thighs met, leaving nothing to imagination. The sheer fabric clung to her completely smooth mound like a second skin. “Just ... never seen you wear that before.” His words were clumsy, inadequate. He saw the faint outline of her nipple through the thin cotton shirt as she shifted her weight.

Jenny took a slow sip of juice, her eyes never leaving his. A small smile played on her lips, not coy, but thoughtful. She leaned back against the counter, arching her spine slightly. The movement pulled the shorts impossibly tighter across her tiny rear, the fabric straining over the small, smooth curves. Her hip bones jutted sharply against the elastic waistband. “Found ‘em in the back of my drawer,” she said casually, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Comfy. Feels like nothing’s on.” She stretched her arms overhead, making her tee ride up and expose a sliver of pale, flat stomach above the shorts’ high-cut leg openings. Andy’s breath hitched. He watched a bead of condensation slide down the juice carton and land silently on the tile near her bare foot.

He knew he should look away, should scrape the burnt pancake off the skillet, should say anything normal. But his gaze was anchored. It traced the stark outline of her pelvic bone beneath the sheer material, the way the light caught the faint blonde down on her thighs. His fingers trembled on the skillet handle. The silence grew heavier, charged with something he couldn’t name. Jenny shifted her weight, her bare foot sliding slightly on the cool tile. The minuscule shorts stretched further over the firm swell of her buttock, revealing a hint of deeper shadow where the fabric vanished into her cleft. A flush crept up her neck, but her expression remained calm, almost ... expectant. She didn’t move to cover herself, didn’t pull her shirt down. She just stood there, letting him look. Her chest rose and fell evenly beneath the thin cotton shirt, the small points of her nipples clearly visible against the fabric.

Slowly, deliberately, Jenny pushed her hips forward. It was barely an inch, but the movement was sharp, deliberate. Her pelvis tilted, emphasizing the sharp jut of her hip bones and drawing the impossibly tight lycra fabric tauter still across her completely smooth mound. The elastic waistband dug deeper into the hollows below her ribs. Andy’s breath stopped. The small motion transformed her stance from casual to provocative. Her shaved cleft pressed outward against the flimsy barrier, the defined outline starkly visible beneath the stretched material. She held the pose, her head tilted slightly, watching his reaction through lowered lashes. The scent of burnt batter faded beneath the clean smell of her skin and laundry detergent. Her thumb hooked casually into the waistband of the shorts, pulling it down another fraction, revealing the faintest hint of the pale crease where thigh met hip. “Better?” she asked softly, her voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate in the thick air. The word hung there, loaded. Was she asking if he felt better, or if she looked better? The slight arch in her lower back deepened the curve of her tiny rear.

Andy’s tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed again, the sound unnaturally loud. His knuckles were white again on the skillet handle, forgotten grease spitting violently onto the stovetop beside the charred pancake wreckage. His eyes flickered wildly – from the hypnotic pull of the lycra vanishing between her thighs, to the sharp lines of her hip bones, to the tiny buds pressing against her thin shirt – before settling back on her face. Her expression wasn’t teasing, wasn’t defiant. It was ... curious. Testing. Waiting. The flush on her neck had deepened, spreading up to her jawline. Her bare toes curled slightly against the cool tile, grounding her. He forced air into his lungs, a ragged sound. “Yeah...” he managed, the word thick and rough, scraping out. He cleared his throat, a desperate sound. “ ... better.” The admission felt dangerous, a crack in the dam. His gaze remained locked on her, tracing the deliberate angle of her hips, the way the morning light caught every contour beneath the sheer fabric. He didn’t add anything. Didn’t tell her to change. Didn’t apologize. He just held her stare, acknowledging the deliberate display.

His gaze drifted lower, inexorably drawn downward. Past the sharp jut of her hip bones, past the straining elastic waistband pulled low on her hips, his focus narrowed entirely on the front panel of those minuscule shorts. The thin lycra stretched taut, molded against the smooth, flat plane of her lower abdomen, then plunged into the defined cleft below. The fabric clung so tightly it was translucent, revealing the faintest outline of her shaved mound beneath – a soft, distinctly feminine curve pressed firmly against the flimsy barrier. Sunlight caught the weave of the material, creating shifting patterns that seemed to highlight every contour. He could see the precise indentations where her thighs met the delicate apex, the fabric pulling tightest there, forming a sheer ‘V’ that left nothing to imagination. His breath hitched again. This wasn’t accidental exposure; the deliberate tilt of her pelvis pushed that intimate area directly into his line of sight. He could almost feel the warmth radiating from her skin through the thin barrier. The scent of burnt food faded completely, replaced by the clean, faintly sweet smell of her skin and the underlying, subtle musk of her arousal. His own pulse hammered in his throat, a frantic drumbeat against his tightened collar.

Jenny shifted her weight slightly onto one bare foot, the movement causing the shorts to pull infinitesimally tighter across the exposed curve of her hip. Her thumb remained hooked casually in the waistband, the pad of her finger brushing against the pale skin of her lower belly. She watched him, her eyes dark with an unreadable intensity that was neither shyness nor challenge. It felt more like scientific observation, gauging his reaction with unnerving calm. A bead of condensation slid down the forgotten juice carton beside her hip, tracing a slow path before dripping onto the cool tile near her toes. The silence wasn’t merely awkward; it was thick, charged with an electric current that seemed to crackle between them. He could hear her soft, steady breathing, the faint rustle of the lycra fabric as she adjusted her stance, and the frantic sizzle of grease spitting violently from the ruined pancake beside him. His knuckles ached anew on the skillet handle, the heat radiating from the cast iron indistinguishable from the heat flooding his own face.

Finally, Jenny spoke. Her voice was low, deliberate, and carried a soft rasp that hadn’t been there moments before. “You really like looking,” she stated, not a question this time, but a simple, undeniable declaration. Her gaze didn’t waver from his face. She didn’t flinch, didn’t blush deeper, didn’t attempt to cover the blatant display her tiny shorts afforded. Instead, her free hand drifted upwards, fingertips brushing almost absently against the thin cotton covering her left nipple. The gesture wasn’t provocative; it was contemplative, as if she were confirming its presence beneath the fabric. “It’s okay,” she continued, her tone softening slightly, almost reassuringly. Her eyes flickered down to his white-knuckled grip on the skillet. “You don’t have to pretend not to.” She paused, letting the words sink in. The deliberate arch in her lower back remained, pushing her pelvis forward just enough to ensure the sheer fabric clung obscenely to her completely bare cleft. “I know,” she added, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper, thick with something unnameable. “I know what you see.”

The sizzle of the burning pancake batter intensified, a sharp counterpoint to the hushed tension. Andy couldn’t move. His tongue felt swollen, useless. His gaze remained locked on the impossibly tight lycra stretched across her mound, the faint outline starkly visible beneath the stretched material. Jenny watched him, her expression shifting minutely. The curious detachment bled into something else – a quiet certainty. “It’s not like I didn’t know,” she murmured, her thumb still hooked casually in the waistband of her shorts, pulling it down another fraction. The pale crease where thigh met hip deepened. “Walking in like this.” Her eyes drifted slowly down her own body, taking in the exposed hip bones, the flat plane of her stomach above the shorts, the way the tee clung to her small, unbound breasts. “I saw you freeze.” A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. “I heard the spatula drop.” Her gaze lifted back to his face, searching his eyes. “It wasn’t ... accidental.” The admission hung heavy in the air, charged and undeniable. Her bare foot slid slightly on the tile again, the sound stark in the silence. “I wanted...” she started, then trailed off, her lips pressing together as if reconsidering the words. Her eyes flickered away briefly, towards the window, before snapping back to him with renewed intensity.

She took a slow breath, her chest rising beneath the thin cotton. “I wanted to see what you’d do,” she confessed, the words softer now, almost hesitant, yet carrying a strange weight. Her thumb rubbed idly along the elastic band digging into her hip bone. “See if you’d ... look.” Her gaze dropped pointedly to where his eyes were still fixed, then lifted back to meet his. Her flush had deepened, spreading across her collarbones, but her stance remained defiantly open. “And you did.” A pause. The only sounds were the frantic crackle from the skillet and their mingled breaths. “You really did.” Her voice dropped lower, rougher. “You like it.” It wasn’t a question this time. It was an observation, delivered with unnerving calm. “You like seeing me ... like this.” Her free hand drifted upwards again, not quite touching her chest, but hovering near the thin fabric outlining her nipple. “Skinny. Bare.” She shifted her weight deliberately, the minuscule shorts stretching obscenely tight across the firm curve of her rear, the cleft shadow deepening. “Everything showing.” Her gaze held his, unwavering, demanding acknowledgment. “Don’t you?”

Andy felt the heat scorch his face, his neck. His knuckles screamed where they gripped the skillet handle, the forgotten grease spitting angrily. He couldn’t lie. Not with her standing there, offering herself so brazenly to his gaze. Not with the evidence straining against the sheer lycra screaming the truth. His throat worked, dry and tight. “Jenny,” he rasped, the name itself sounding choked. A protest died before it formed. His eyes betrayed him, flickering hungrily over the tight shorts, the impossible smoothness beneath, the way the morning light caught the fine golden hairs on her exposed thighs. He swallowed hard, the sound harsh. His jaw clenched. The response felt ripped from somewhere deep, primal. “ ... Yes.” The word scraped out, raw and gravelly. He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t soften it. Just held her stare, admitting the unthinkable. The kitchen air crackled, thick with the scent of burnt batter and her clean skin.

Jenny’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. Not triumphant, but ... satisfied. Accepted. Her hooked thumb tugged the waistband of her shorts down another fraction, revealing another sliver of pale skin above the sharp jut of her hip bone. The sheer fabric stretched tighter still across her mound, the defined outline pressing visibly against the straining material. “I thought so,” she murmured, her voice low and steady, carrying a soft rasp that vibrated in the charged silence. She took a deliberate step closer, her bare feet whispering on the cool tile. The movement brought her impossibly closer to the stove, to him. The scent of laundry detergent and warm skin intensified, mingling with the acrid smell of burning. Her eyes, dark and intent, scanned his face – the flush creeping into his ears, the tightness around his mouth, the way his pupils were blown wide. “It’s okay, Dad,” she breathed, her gaze dropping pointedly to the front of his jeans. Her own breathing hitched slightly, a tremor betraying the calm facade. “To like it. To look.” Her free hand drifted upwards, fingers brushing lightly, almost thoughtfully, against the outline of her nipple beneath the thin cotton tee. The fabric puckered softly. “I saw your eyes. Bugging out.” A faint blush warmed her neck, but her posture remained defiantly open, hips tilted forward. “Like you’d never seen me before.”