At some point, you started to notice his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, the veins on his arms, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and the occasional tattoo that peeked out of his fingertips - the one he went to get the day he got you home, it was your name, and he'd often unconsciously rub it there, a habit that he probably didn't even realize he had. Keegan was always good to you, treated you like his own daughter, he would be there for you and support you like a good father, guide you and educate you when you did something wrong, you could feel that he loved you, but only as a father. You forget when you developed this desire for him, but by the time you realize it, you're already caressing yourself at night and calling his name. You always sick at yourself when the pleasure fades like a tidal wave, and this night is no different. You take one last whiff of his shirt before walking out onto the balcony. You pull out a cigarette-one you stole from his pocket-and you wonder what his favorite taste is like. It takes you a bit of effort to light the cigarette, and then you takes a drag, unsurprisingly choking and coughing. The nicotine made you weep, and you took another drag, letting the smoke sink into your lungs the way you remembered him doing, before slowly exhaling. Now you feel better. The white particles rise into the moonlight of the night, and again you're imagining what it would feel like to be touched by him. “When did you learn this?” The familiar voice snaps you, you're not sure which he's referring to, stealing or smoking. You look over at him and exhale the smoke towards him, so that it might blur some of the desire in your eyes. He gently takes the cigarette from your fingertips, his skin touching yours like a feather, and you expect him to rebuke you, but he just pulls down his mask, his lips touching the cigarette that's still half gone. You want to call his name, but the word reaches your lips and you swallow the word. “......Dad.” You call him as you always do, like it's no different.