Page 40 of Off-Limits Daddy
Light spilled through the sliding door from the kitchen. Enough to catch the patchy grass along the edge of the concrete and the flaking white paint on the swing’s armrest. Mom had mentioned repainting it herself. I’d offered to paint it—more than once—and I’d had plenty of time after I came back home.
The paint and brushes were in the shed, exactly where she said they’d be. I’d walked past them five times this week.
And still hadn’t picked them up.
Just one more thing I said I’d do and never did. Not because I didn’t want to. Just… because I didn’t trust myself to see it through.
Mom left for bingo an hour ago, already halfway through her once-a-month night out with her coworkers. Probably yelling across folding tables by now, chasing a free ham or another mug we didn’t need for the shelf. She’d offered to stay home when she got in from her shift—asked if I wanted company like she hadn’t just worked eight hours on her feet. I said she deserved a night out with her friends and that I was fine.
I wasn’t.
Inside, my sketchbooks were stacked haphazardly on the edge of my bed, one open on a page that was supposed to be the start of a new series. Something about memory. Or movement. Or whatever I thought I could force to matter.
Same with the job apps open on my laptop. Half-finished, like I’d clicked through just enough to realize I wasn’t qualified for anything in town except maybe painting windows at the hardware store. You’d think an art degree would get you more than a pat on the back. Professors had called my work bold. Expressive. Said my portfolio hadrange. Didn’t matter if half of it lived in folders I couldn’t afford to print again. They weren’t the ones still living at home in the same twin bed they grew up in, with a future that felt more like a loading screen stuck at 99%.
My leg bounced, nerves simmering beneath skin that had no reason to be this on edge. The swing moved with me, not quite in rhythm, just enough to make the chain groan now and then. I pressed my foot flat against the concrete, trying to anchor something that didn’t want to settle.
Gravel shifted out front—first a low crunch, then the familiar rumble of tires easing to a stop.
My pulse jumped.
I didn’t need to check to know who it was. That truck had been pulling into our driveway for years. Long before my crush on Reid Morgan ever meant anything, long before I learned what it felt like to want someone enough that the sound of their engine could rearrange your whole evening.
One knock on the front door. Short. Certain.
“Back here,” I called, not trusting my legs to carry me forward just yet.
Another pause. Then the sound of gravel as he made his way around. The gate creaked like it always did, the latch clicking open, then shut again. Boots crunched on the path. His walk had a rhythm I knew by heart—deliberate, even. Like he never rushed unless someone’s life depended on it. Like he already knew what kind of mood he’d find me in.
The first thing I felt was calm.
He rounded the corner. Porch light caught the edge of his jaw, the pale sweep of his forearm. He stood there for a beat, not speaking, just... seeing, just taking in the whole mess of me like he always did in that quiet, unshakable way of his.
Daddy didn’t say anything at first. He just moved slowly, lowering himself onto the swing beside me. Close, but not touching. Close enough that I could feel the warmth rolling off him, a pull I couldn’t ignore. He smelled like cedar soap, orange peel and clean cotton from his T-shirt.
I wanted to lean in. Just a little. Let my shoulder brush his. Let him know I noticed the way he showed up, even when he didn’t say much. I wanted to press my face to the curve of his neck and never leave. Because wanting him came so easy. And I didn’t know how to want him quietly anymore.
The chain creaked harder under his weight, steadied itself, then swayed.
Wind stirred around us, lazy, pushing humidity over my bare arms. Somewhere across the yard, the neighbor’s dog gave a tired bark before flopping back down. Summer smelled like warm grass and too many things left undone.
“Out here hiding?”
My mouth curled just enough to count as a smirk. “Only from the future.”
“Good luck with that.”
I didn’t laugh. Didn’t say anything either. Just let the swing creak again, one slow push from my leg that didn’t quite match my heartbeat.
Daddy waited. Not the kind of waiting that demanded anything. He didn’t try to fill the silence.
His voice, when it came, was softer than before. “Talk to me, baby.”
God. That word. My ribs felt like they were closing around it. Nobody else called me that. Nobody else could’ve made me want to crawl inside a voice and stay there.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” It came out hoarse.
“Try again.”
