Like she belongs in my space.
She tucks a damp strand of hair behind her ear and meets my eyes, hesitant. Bracing.
“Pants didn’t fit?” I ask, voice low.
She nods.“They’re… huge. They won’t stay up.”A pause. “But the shirt works. Thank you.”
I nod back, once, because if I open my mouth, I’ll say something I shouldn’t.
“You’re exhausted,” I manage. “Get in bed.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
She crosses the room, slow, almost cautious, like the bed might disappear if she moves too fast. She climbs in, pulling the sheets up to her chest. The shirt rides high on her thighs when she shifts.
Too high.
My gaze catches on bare skin before I look away—hard.
Teeth gritted, jaw locked, self-control stretched thin.
Because she’s here. In my bed. In my shirt.
And I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
I drag a blanket off the back of the couch and sit down.
“You’re not going to sleep,” she says.
“I’ll rest.”
“That’s not sleeping.”
“No,” I agree.
Her lips part like she wants to say something else, something softer, something that might crack the edges of this night open.
Then her eyes flutter.
Her body gives up first.
She falls asleep fast, like her system finally believes she can.
I sit there in the dim light, listening to the cabin, to the night outside, to the soft rhythm of her breathing. The kind of breathing that says she’s not fighting anymore.
I should feel relief.
I do.
But there’s something else under it.
Something hot. Possessive. Dangerous.
Then she whimpers in her sleep.
Shifts hard. Twitches under the covers.
“No,” she gasps. “Don’t go—please—Dad—”
