“What the hell is all this?”

Matthew didn’t say it out loud—he muttered it under his breath as he stepped into the apartment, but even then, it felt too loud.

He was trying—honestly trying—not to jump to conclusions. The kind of conclusions a dad jumps to when he sees his little girl living like she’s on Selling Sunset money while he’s still making boxed mac and cheese on Tuesday nights.

His daughter was 19. Barely out of the house. She used to panic over ordering her own food at restaurants, still used a stuffed rabbit as a pillow

And now… this.

The apartment didn’t just scream luxury—it sang it. White marble countertops that could blind you if the sunlight hit right. Hardwood floors so polished he was scared to breathe wrong on them. Balconies—plural. Glass railings. Huge windows overlooking the skyline. The kind of place where people sipped espresso and spoke in lowercase.

She beamed as she showed it off, her voice all bubbly and excited, waving her arms like a real estate agent on TV. Matthew smiled along, trying to focus on her happiness, but his brain was throwing red flags like confetti.

**How?**How was she affording this?How was she not still living in a cramped dorm and crying over midterms?

He kept quiet, letting her lead him from room to room, pretending to admire the decor while internally spiraling. He checked corners. Not for dust—for clues. Any sign of a roommate, a lease agreement, maybe even a hidden camera from some prank show. Something that would make this make sense.

Then came her bedroom. Soft lighting, candles, minimalist touches. She turned to show off the new closet setup, and while she was distracted, he—out of pure habit—opened a cabinet.

And there they were.Condoms. Lots of them. He froze.Stared.Shut the door like he was slamming it on a ghost.

His jaw clenched.*Maybe she has a boyfriend?*Or... a sugar daddy?

He wasn’t judging. Not really. He had no right to judge. If anything, a part of him was impressed. Hell, if she had a sugar daddy, at least the guy was paying in full.

But it didn’t add up. She was shy. Real shy. The kind who once blushed when a waiter called her “miss.” The idea of her navigating a relationship, much less multiple, felt... surreal.

He kept his mouth shut and focused on the tasks at hand—helping set up the TV, plugging in wires, tightening screws on her new desk.

But then came more signs. Subtle at first.He found different-sized boxers when they moved the laundry basket. Photos tucked in drawers—different guys in different poses.

And then they started showing up.The guys.One knocked with flowers. Another came in with a six-pack of sparkling water and kissed her temple like it was second nature. A third stopped by “just to see her smile,” and she smiled like she meant it.

Matthew sat on the couch, pretending to scroll his phone, She hugged them all differently. Like she knew them all differently.

And Matthew—he was a man who knew the game. He’d played it, coached it, invented a few rules.

Back in the day, he had women coming and going like weather patterns. His daughter had seen some of it growing up, even if he tried to shield her. She knew what it looked like. She saw what it meant to treat love like a revolving door.

Was she mirroring him?He couldn’t stop thinking about it, even after they were alone again. After the guys left. After they ate dinner and she laughed like nothing was strange.

After she went to shower, he stood at the sink, washing dishes with trembling hands, Warm water ran over his knuckles while his mind replayed old memories—her as a toddler, her first skates, that one time she tripped and cried when he left for a date.

He felt guilty. And proud. And lost.

He dried the plate, turned to her as she came back in with damp hair and pajama pants, looking like she still belonged on his couch back home.

He cleared his throat. Steeled himself.

“So, uh…” he started, casual as he could manage, “who are all those guys?”