I push the front door open a little after two and the house smells like coffee and the lemon cleaner Grampa always uses on Tuesdays. My backpack slides off one shoulder and hits the floor. I don’t even make it three steps before he’s there.

He’s been waiting in the living room. I can tell by the way he’s already standing, hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, that soft gray flannel open over a plain white undershirt. The same way he used to wait when I was little and came home crying about something at school.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and careful. “Rough day?”

I nod. The words stick for a second. Today is twelve years. Twelve years since the call, since the police at the door, since everything that used to be mine disappeared in one wet afternoon on the highway. I never know how to say it out loud without my throat closing up.

He doesn’t make me. Just opens his arms.

I walk straight into them. The second my face presses against his chest the ache hits full force. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm, one big hand cradling the back of my head the way he’s done since I was seven. I breathe him in; soap, coffee, the faint clean sweat from whatever he was doing in the yard earlier. My fingers curl into the soft flannel.

“I know,” he whispers against my hair. “I know, Libby. I’m right here.”

We stay like that for a long time in the quiet hallway. My eyes sting but I don’t cry yet. I just let him hold me, let the steady thump of his heart under my cheek remind me I’m not completely alone in the world.

And that’s when it starts, the part I hate.

Because even while the grief is sitting heavy in my chest, my body notices other things. The solid muscle under the flannel. How broad his shoulders feel when I’m pressed this close. The way his hand is so big it covers almost the whole back of my head. The low rumble of his voice vibrating through me. A tiny, shameful spark flickers low in my belly and I hate myself for it instantly.

I pull back a little too fast, cheeks burning.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m okay. Just ... today.”

He keeps one hand on my shoulder, thumb brushing once. “You don’t have to be okay. Not today.” His eyes are soft. “I warmed some milk and got out the cookies. Sit for a minute before we go.”

“Okay,” I whisper, and follow him into the kitchen. He sets a glass of warm milk and a small plate of soft cookies in front of me without asking—he already knows how I like them. When his fingers brush mine as he places the glass down, just for a second, my stomach flips anyway.

I stare down at the cookies so I don’t have to look at him.

God, what’s wrong with me.

It started a couple years ago. The emptiness after they died never really left. It just ... changed shape. Turned into this constant low ache between my legs that nothing quite fixes. Every morning I wake up and my hand is already there before I’m fully awake, rubbing slow circles over my clit, two fingers slipping inside like it’s the only way I know how to feel something that isn’t hollow. I talk to myself while I do it; good girl, just like that, make it nice and wet; because somehow the softness makes the guilt quieter for a few minutes. I’ve tried to stop. I’ve tried so many times. But the second the loneliness hits, or a hard day like today, my body reaches for that instead.

And lately the fantasies have started including him. Not on purpose. Just ... the only man who’s ever been there for me. The only hands that ever felt safe. I hate that my brain does this. I hate that when he hugged me just now my pussy clenched like it was hungry for something it shouldn’t want.

I take a sip of the warm milk and a small bite from the cookie.

Grampa leans against the counter across from me, arms crossed, watching in that quiet way of his. The flannel stretches a little across his chest. I force my eyes up to his face and keep them there.

“Cemetery’s quiet this time of day,” he says after a minute. “We can stay as long as you need. I already cut some flowers from the yard.”

My throat feels tight. “Thank you. For ... everything. For remembering.”

“Always, Libby.” He pushes off the counter and comes around to where I’m sitting. One big hand rests gently on the top of my head for a second, the same affectionate touch he’s given me a thousand times. “Go change if you want. We’ll leave whenever you’re ready.”

I stand up. The ache between my legs is still there, low and traitorous, mixed up with the grief until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I give him a small, shaky smile and head toward the stairs.

In my room I close the door and lean against it for a second, breathing hard. My hand drifts down, pressing lightly over the front of my jeans where I’m already a little damp. I push the jeans down to my knees, slip my fingers under the soft waistband of my pink cotton panties. The heat hits me right away. I’m wetter than I should be ... thin slick folds already parted, clit swollen. I rub slow circles and two fingertips dip just inside, feeling how soft and ready everything is.

Stupid little sad girl, I tell myself. Touching your wet cunt on the day your parents died while Grampa’s downstairs waiting with the flowers. Twelve years and this is still how you cope.

But the ache doesn’t care. The need is louder than the guilt and I push deeper, curling, the wet sound soft and filthy in the quiet room. My hips twitch. A tiny whimper slips out before I can stop it. I keep going harder, chasing that little spark that makes the emptiness feel less sharp, even though I know it’s wrong, even though he’s right downstairs, even though the cemetery is waiting. My thighs start to shake. I’m so close so fast it scares me.

It takes real effort to yank my hand away. I pull my fingers free like I’ve been burned, chest heaving, panties stuck damp to my skin. I shove the jeans the rest of the way off with shaky hands and kick them aside, then peel the wet pink panties down too. Standing there bare from the waist down, I press my thighs together hard, trying to ignore the pulse that’s still there and the cool air kissing my wet folds.

Not now. Not today.

I pull the soft black dress, the one I always wear for this, over my head and let it fall. No panties. I can’t stand the idea of anything touching me down there right now. Then I meet him back downstairs. He’s waiting by the door with the small bouquet of white roses and the keys for the truck. When he looks at me his face softens all over again.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

I swallow. “As ready as I can be, Grampa...”

We walk out to the truck together. The afternoon sun is warm on my arms, but the hollow feeling in my chest is colder than ever. And underneath it, quiet and shameful, the other ache keeps pulsing, waiting for later when I’m alone again.

Grampa opens the passenger door of the old truck and holds out a hand for me. His palm is warm and rough. He steadies me as I climb up onto the high seat, then carefully settles the little bouquet of white roses in my lap like they are something fragile.

“Hold those for me, sweetheart.”

He shuts the door soft and walks around the front. I watch him the whole way, the solid set of his shoulders under the flannel, the easy way he moves. When he climbs in on his side the truck shifts a little under his weight. I scoot closer without really deciding to, until my thigh is almost touching his. He doesn’t say anything about it. Just reaches over and settles one heavy arm along the back of the seat, the way he’s done since I was small. His hand ends up resting lightly near my shoulder, brushing the side of my arm in that absent, comforting way. It used to feel like protection when I was little. Now it just feels big and warm and too close, and my bare pussy clenches once in response.

We pull out of the driveway.

I’m so aware of him it almost hurts. The heat of his body next to mine. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The way his jeans stretch over his thick thighs every time he shifts gears. My bare pussy is still slick from earlier, no panties under the soft black dress, and every small bump in the road makes me feel the dampness between my folds, the way the fabric sticks a little. I keep my knees pressed together and hope he can’t smell it. The air in the cab feels too warm. I can smell myself, soft and musky and wrong, mixed with the roses and his soap. I wonder if he can smell it too. The thought makes my cheeks burn and my cunt clench.

The drive isn’t long. Ten minutes, maybe. Neither of us talks much. His arm stays where it is, thumb occasionally brushing the side of my arm in that absent, comforting way. I stare at the flowers in my lap and try not to think about how close his hand is, or how easy it would be to lean my head against his shoulder the way I used to.

When we reach the cemetery he parks under the big oak near the edge of the section where Mom and Dad are. He gets out first, comes around, and opens my door again. His hand is there waiting, steady, so I can climb down without the dress riding up too far. I take it. His fingers close around mine for a second longer than they need to, and I feel that same melt in my chest I’ve felt my whole life around him; safe, looked-after, loved.

Only now it twists. Darker. The love is still there, warm and real, but underneath it something hungrier keeps stirring, the same something that had my fingers inside myself twenty minutes ago while he waited downstairs. I hate how the two feelings keep braiding together.

He doesn’t let go of my hand right away. Just looks at me with those soft brown eyes and gives my fingers a gentle squeeze.

“You ready?” he asks quietly.

I swallow hard and give the tiniest yes with my eyes. We start walking toward the headstones together, his hand still loosely holding mine like he’s afraid I might drift away.

We stop in front of the two matching headstones. The grass is neatly cut. Grampa must have been here earlier in the week.

I kneel first and set the white roses down between their names. The petals look too bright against the gray stone. For a second I can’t find any words. My throat just sits closed. Then I rest my fingertips on the cool marble and try.

“Hi Mom. Hi Dad.” My voice comes out small. “Another year. I’m ... I’m still here. Grampa’s taking good care of me. I miss you both so much it still hurts in the same place.”

That’s all I manage. The rest stays stuck behind my teeth. I stay kneeling a little longer, feeling the afternoon sun on the back of my neck and the soft black dress clinging slightly between my thighs where I’m still damp from earlier. The grief is huge and familiar. Underneath it the other ache hasn’t gone away either. It feels wrong that they can sit side by side like this.

Grampa stands behind me the whole time, close enough that I can feel him there. When I finally stand he reaches out and brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear with one careful finger. He doesn’t say anything fancy. Just rests his big hand on my shoulder for a moment and looks at the stones with me.

“They’re proud of you,” he says quietly. “I know that much.”

We stay another few minutes in silence, then walk back to the truck the same way we came—his hand loosely holding mine.

The drive home is quieter than the drive there. His arm is along the back of the seat again. I sit close. Every time the truck hits a small bump I feel the soft slide of my bare pussy against the seat and the leftover slickness that never really dried. I keep my eyes on the road and try not to think about it.

Halfway home he flicks the turn signal and pulls into the little ice-cream place on the corner—the one with the faded pink sign I’ve loved since I was eight. He puts the truck in park and looks over at me with the smallest almost-smile.

“Dessert before dinner today,” he says. “Rules are different on this day. What do you want, sweetheart?”

He’s always done this. Always made the hard days a tiny bit softer. The care in his voice hits me right in the middle of the grief and for a second I don’t know if I want to cry or lean against him. Then it twists again, the same dark little twist that’s been happening more and more, and I have to look away before my face gives anything away.

“Strawberry with extra whipped cream,” I answer, voice quieter than I mean it to be. “Same as always.”

He nods once, gets out, and walks around to open my door like he always does.

We sit on the little bench outside the ice-cream place and eat in mostly silence. The strawberry is cold and sweet on my tongue, the extra whipped cream already melting. Grampa has vanilla. Every now and then he glances over to make sure I’m okay. I give him the smallest smile each time and try not to let my eyes linger on the way his throat moves when he swallows, or how his free hand rests heavy on his own thigh.

When we get back in the truck the sun is starting to drop lower. He pulls out onto the road and after a couple of blocks his right hand leaves the steering wheel. It settles on my bare knee, just above where the black dress has ridden up a little. Warm. Rough. He gives a small, comforting squeeze the way he’s done a hundred times before when I’ve been sad.

But today it doesn’t feel the same.

The second his palm presses against my skin a jolt shoots straight up my leg and lands hard between my thighs. My bare pussy clenches so suddenly I almost gasp. Heat floods low in my belly. I can feel fresh slick gathering, the soft folds getting wetter under the dress with nothing to catch it. His hand is so big it covers most of my knee and part of my lower thigh. One tiny shift higher and his fingers would be under the hem. The thought hits me like a punch; shameful, electric, wrong. I stare straight ahead at the road and try to breathe normally while my heart hammers and my cunt pulses against the seat.

He leaves his hand there the rest of the short drive. Not moving. Just resting. A steady, warm weight that somehow feels heavier than it should. I don’t dare look down. If I look down I’ll stare at the way his thick fingers curve over my skin and then I’ll be lost.

When the truck finally turns into our driveway I almost scramble for the door handle.

He parks, comes around to open my side like always, and helps me down. The second my feet hit the ground I take a half-step back.

“I ... I’ve got some homework I need to get through,” I say, the words coming out a little too fast. “For tomorrow. I should probably start now.”

Grampa’s eyebrows lift just a fraction. Surprise flickers across his face—homework on a day like this isn’t usual for me—but he doesn’t call me on it. He just studies me for a second with those soft brown eyes, then nods once.