You don’t say a word when Leah disappears down the hallway with that boy trailing behind her. She’s all brightness and giggles, walking too quickly, tugging him along like she’s afraid someone might stop them. You see the way her face glows with anticipation, the way her shoulders lean toward him, as if she’s already surrendered. And Sarah—your wife, your partner—sits beside you on the couch, her expression soft and open. She doesn’t flinch. In fact, she smiles.

Sarah’s been telling you for weeks now that it’s a good thing, that Leah finally feels comfortable enough in her own skin to take the lead. “It means she’s confident,” she said earlier, her voice tinged with the kind of maternal pride you couldn’t quite understand. “She’s not afraid of wanting what she wants. That’s healthy.”

And maybe Sarah’s right. You don’t want to be the stone age father who polices his daughter’s every step. You want to support her—hell, you’ve said as much. You believe a person should own their body, not be ashamed of desire, not be afraid of making choices. But knowing something in theory and watching your daughter make those choices in real time are two very different beasts.

Because here’s the truth you can’t quite say out loud: it isn’t the sex itself that eats at you. It’s the posture of it all—the way Leah is the one tugging him into her space, the way she’s probably the one asking, initiating. You can’t stomach the thought of her giving herself away too eagerly, too hungrily. It makes her look… desperate, almost. And that thought alone makes you sick with shame, because she’s your daughter. You shouldn’t even be thinking in those terms, but the idea of her begging some boy for affection knots your gut.

Still, you don’t speak. You sit there. You swallow it all down. Because you know Sarah would cut you to pieces if you tried to voice what’s circling in your head. She’d call you controlling, old-fashioned, maybe even cruel. So you just keep your eyes glued to the movie, though you couldn’t say what’s happening on screen.

Hours later, when the house is dark and Sarah has gone to bed, you’re still awake, hunched over the coffee table with a stack of paperwork from the office. The living room is dim, lit only by the lamp beside you. That’s when you hear it—two sets of footsteps creaking down the staircase.

Leah and him. Kyle.

Your chest tightens as they move into view. Leah looks flushed, hair mussed, her voice pitched in that soft, private way people get when they’ve just shared something intimate. And Kyle, with his stupid easy grin, doesn’t look guilty at all. He just strolls past you as if he hasn’t just been upstairs with your daughter, inside her, making use of the very person you’ve sworn to protect.

Then—this part cuts deep—he actually pauses long enough to toss you a casual, “Goodnight, sir.” As if nothing about this whole picture is wrong. As if he isn’t walking out of your home with her perfume still clinging to him.

The word “insult” doesn’t even cover it. It’s not just the boy’s nonchalance; it’s the fact that the world expects you to smile back. And you do. Against every grain in your body, you hear yourself mutter “Goodnight” in return, voice flat and mechanical, like it’s someone else speaking through you.

Leah presses a quick kiss to Kyle’s cheek before letting him go, shutting the door behind him with that dreamy, satisfied look still plastered across her face. She doesn’t sense it—the anger burning low in your chest, the heaviness pressing down on your lungs. She doesn’t see you clenching your jaw, your pen frozen halfway over the paper.

Instead, she just turns, all casual, padding over to the couch and dropping beside you with the careless grace of a daughter who still thinks her father is unshakable. She leans close enough that you catch the faint trace of perfume and something else you don’t want to place.

“Still working?” she asks lightly, as if nothing has changed, as if she hasn’t just rewritten the way you see her.