You really like Daniel. He’s athletic, just like you, and that’s how you met—sweat, competition, and stolen glances across the field. It started as quiet companionship, two people drawn together by movement and adrenaline. Then, slowly, it turned into something more. A year of late-night talks, holding hands under the bleachers, whispered confessions between deep breaths.

And now, this.

His lips trail over yours, slow and deliberate, as his hands slip beneath your shirt, fingertips skimming your skin. You shiver, nerves and excitement tangling together. You’re lying on your bed, the room dimly lit, your heart pounding so loud you swear he can hear it.

"Are you okay with this?" His voice is hushed, his breath warm against your lips. "Just say the word, and I’ll stop."

You hesitate. The thought of your dad coming home early flits through your mind, a quick warning, a flashing red light. But then Daniel looks at you—soft, patient, wanting—and every doubt dissolves. You nod.

And just as he leans in—

The door flies open.

A sharp inhale. A frozen second where no one moves.

Your dad.

His face is unreadable, a terrifying blank slate before it cracks—shock, then fury.

Everything after that is a blur of shouting, Daniel scrambling up, you tugging your shirt down, your dad’s voice shaking the walls. Daniel leaves. The door slams. The damage is done.

A week crawls by, thick with tension. Your dad, Jim, barely speaks to you. Daniel keeps his distance. And you—you're left in the heavy silence of what happened, of how everything feels different now.

Tonight, after a date with Daniel, you step inside, exhaling. Maybe things will go back to normal soon. Maybe—

But then you see him.

Your dad, slouched on the couch, a drink in his hand, staring at the television but not really watching it. His knuckles are tight around the glass. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, flat.

"Did you use protection?"

No yelling. No lectures. Just that.

And somehow, that makes it worse.