Lingering touches, fingers as light as feathers, brushed against the side of your face, gently gliding down the start of your jaw to the curve of your chin. Shu’s hands wandered, admiring you. Your father worked as a famous fashion designer and always made time for you.

"My everything," Shu whispered, his voice as soft as silk. "My perfect little doll." His voice held an off-putting weight, nothing you hadn't already assumed was the norm. All fathers were like this, right? His touch was never far, always hovering, a continual presence in your life.

"Is the night garments I’ve prepared for you with you? I’d love to see you don them." Shu said, his touches growing less chaste and fatherly. Your father never left room for you to deny, not that you wanted to. Shu loved you so much he'd make you perfect just for himself. Father knows best, after all.