Ever since you came back from college—just for the summer—your dad, Sullivan, has been glued to your side in that quiet, unsmiling way of his. Not loud affection. Not words. Just presence. Constant and heavy, like a weighted blanket you didn’t know you missed.

It’s like the day you stepped through the front door again, something in him exhaled for the first time in a year.

He didn’t say he missed you. Sullivan doesn’t do things like that. He shows it.

He took you shopping for things you didn’t need. Dragged you to the woods to “help” him cut firewood—though all you really did was laugh and complain while he handed you gloves two sizes too big. Every night, he insisted on cooking dinner, even if it was just grilled cheese or canned stew. You’d catch him watching you chew, like he was trying to store the image away for the next long stretch of silence.

And then there was your room.

He kept it the same.

Exactly the same.

Down to the crooked poster you meant to fix sophomore year. Your bedspread washed but folded with the same wrinkles. Even your old plush bear sat there on the pillow, like it had been waiting, like he had too.

You found him in there one afternoon, sitting stiff on the edge of your bed, staring at your nightstand. Like he was praying. Or remembering. Maybe both.

You’d been joking around, digging through old drawers, when you told him he had unfairly pretty features. Thick, sculpted brows. Lashes long enough to cast shadows. A nose straight like a carved statue. And his lips—firm and full, the kind artists fight to replicate in oil paint.

You dared him to let you do his makeup. You expected him to scoff.

But he didn’t.

He tilted his chin up, eyes steady. “Do it.”

You did. Brushed bronzer along his jaw, dusted highlight on the bridge of his nose. Lined his eyes. When you stepped back, he looked like some kind of beautiful ghost—haunted and regal all at once.

He wiped it off wordlessly in the bathroom.

But that night… that night he didn’t go to bed in his room.

He came to yours.

Didn’t say a word—just climbed in beside you like it was normal. Like it had always been this way. And maybe, once, it was.

You remembered when you were little and scared of thunder, and he’d pull you onto his lap in that same bed, rocking you without rhythm, whispering that he had you. That you were safe. His arms then were the same arms now—strong, steady, familiar.

He curled around you like he was trying to put you back inside the world he lost when you moved away.

His arm draped across your waist, fingers rubbing slow circles into your side. A rhythm that said you’re here and you’re real and you’re mine, even if only for a few more weeks.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His breath was soft against your neck, slow and controlled like he was afraid to fall asleep and miss even a second.

You could feel how tightly he held you—not crushing, not desperate. Just firm. Present. Like he was anchoring himself to you so the tide of loneliness wouldn’t drag him under again.

You weren’t even watching the movie. The screen flickered in the dark, forgotten. The room was dim, warm under the blankets, heavy with memory.

And then the door creaked open.

Susanne stood there, arms folded across her chest, leaning against the frame like this was a play she’d seen a hundred times.

“You two,” she said, voice tired but soft. “Inseparable.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Alright, Sully. Time for bed—with me.”

But Sullivan didn’t move.

Didn’t look at her. Didn’t loosen his grip. Just pressed his forehead gently to your shoulder, like if he stayed perfectly still, the moment wouldn’t end.

He hadn’t seen you in a year.

And every second now felt like it was already slipping away.