The Knock

"You've got something... right here."

She lifted her hand before he could move. Touched the side of his neck, just under his jaw. Her fingers brushed something sticky.

Then she blinked.

Her eyes met his.

And something passed between them--something he didn't know how to explain and she didn't know how to name.

She dropped her hand.

"Never mind," she whispered. "It's gone."

And she walked out of the room.

----------------

She didn't come back after that.

He stayed where he was, coffee forgotten in his hand, staring at the door she'd just walked through.

Her touch still tingled on his skin.

That tiny patch of damp where her fingers had been--it burned like a brand.

And the way she'd looked at him.

Like she knew.

But then she'd said "never mind" and disappeared down the hall, leaving him standing there in the wreckage of a moment neither of them could name.

Did she know what she found on him?

He didn't see her again until long after midnight.

⸻

She didn't know what time it was.

The room was dark, the streetlight outside casting a pale grid of shadows across the wall. She'd kicked off the blankets sometime after midnight, too hot to sleep. Now she lay curled beneath the sheet, wide awake, watching her own breath rise and fall like she was trying to prove she was still here.

Her thoughts kept looping.

Not words--just flashes.

The way Matt had looked at her when he opened the front door. The smell of soap and cedar. The silence that didn't feel dangerous.

She retreated to the room down the hall. Again.

The door clicked shut behind her. She didn't lock it, but she didn't want to be seen either.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of stillness.

She lay on the bed, curled on her side, the smell of laundry soap rising from the pillow like it was trying to comfort her. She scrolled her phone without seeing anything. Let a podcast play without listening. Watched dust move in a shaft of sunlight across the floor and thought about nothing and everything all at once.

Matt didn't knock. Didn't call her for lunch. Didn't ask if she was okay.

And that made it easier, somehow.

She heard him moving through the house--washing dishes, hammering something out back. Once, his voice drifted down the hall, low and even, like he was on the phone. Like he was holding something in.

By late afternoon, the light began to shift. The house got quieter.

She stood once. Just for a moment.

Made it as far as the doorway.

The smell of something warm drifted in from the kitchen. Pasta, maybe. Or soup. She could hear him moving, slow and methodical. The clink of cutlery. The creak of the old drawer near the sink.

She thought about going out there.

Thought about sitting at the table. Saying thank you. Maybe even trying to explain.

But the words felt stuck behind her ribs.

And the thought of looking him in the eye--of wondering what he remembered, what he felt--was too much.

So she backed away again.

Closed the door.

Laid back down.

And stayed there until the light under his door went dark.

The quiet was different now. Heavier.

She thought it would help--being alone. Giving him space. Giving herself space.

But it didn't feel safe.

It felt hollow.

Like something was missing from the air.

Her thoughts kept looping.

Not words--just sensations.

The way his eyes flicked away like she'd done something wrong.

The shift in the air when she got too close.

The sticky warmth on her fingers.

She didn't know what it meant.

Only that it embarrassed her.

That she wished she hadn't touched him.

That maybe she was gross for noticing.

It felt like other moments she couldn't name.

Moments that blurred.

Moments she'd learned to walk away from without asking questions.

So she did what she always did.

She folded into herself.

Made herself small.

Tried to disappear behind a closed door.

But it wasn't working anymore.

The quiet scratched at her skin.

The dark pressed too close.

She didn't think. Didn't plan.

Just moved.

One step. Then another. Her hand barely made a sound on the hallway wall.

The light under his door was off.

She stood there for a second, fingers curled at her sides, heart pounding too loud in her ears.

Then she knocked. Soft. Once.

The door opened.

He didn't say anything. Just looked at her.

His eyes were sleepy, his hair a mess. He wore a T-shirt and old plaid pajama pants. His mouth opened like he might ask if she was okay--but he didn't.

She was grateful for that.

She didn't want to explain.

"Can I just..." she swallowed. "Be in here?"

He stepped aside.

She climbed into the bed without waiting for him to say yes.

The sheets were warm. The pillow smelled like him. Her back stayed turned.

She didn't want him to see her face.

Didn't want to know what it looked like when she let herself feel safe.

He lay down a minute later, careful not to shift the mattress too much.

They didn't speak.

But their breaths found the same rhythm.

⸻

He hadn't expected her to knock.

Hadn't expected to see her standing there in that oversized T-shirt, hair mussed from sleep, bare thighs pale in the low light of the hallway.

She looked small.

But not like a child.

Like something fragile trying to hold itself together.

He didn't ask what was wrong. He just moved aside.

She slipped past him, silent as breath, and climbed into his bed like she'd done it a hundred times before.

He watched her settle--back to him, knees tucked up, shoulder rising and falling with shallow breath.

The covers barely covered her legs. Her shirt rode up when she shifted. He could see the curve where her ass met her thigh.

And for one wild second, he wanted to touch her.

Just--pull the blanket up.

Just tuck her in.

Just feel her skin.

He lay down with a full foot of space between them.

But he could feel her heat.

The air between their bodies charged and close. The kind of closeness that made your lungs tighten. That made you forget how to breathe.

She moved in her sleep--just a little. Her heel brushed his calf.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't move away.

But every nerve in his body lit up.

And then it started.

That slow, undeniable thickening in his groin. The heaviness. The pulse.

He was getting hard.

Not from anything she did.

Just from her being there. Close. Warm. Trusting him enough to come into his room and lie down in his bed and breathe like that--soft and slow and safe.

His stomach turned.

He hated it.

Hated the way his body responded. Hated the heat pooling low, the need creeping in, the way his cock stirred without permission. It was instinct. Primitive. And utterly inappropriate.

She was just a girl. His brother's daughter. A kid who'd been through too much.

She needed sleep. Safety. A roof. Not this.

Not him.

He clenched his fist under the blanket, trying to will it away. Breathe it away.

He turned slightly onto his side, facing away, hoping the pressure might ease. But it only made it worse.

Because now he could smell her shampoo--faint vanilla and rain. Could feel the ghost of her touch on his leg. Could picture the bare skin she didn't even realize was showing, the way her shirt had slid up when she got in the bed.

His cock throbbed.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Don't do this, he told himself. Don't let this be real.

But it was real.

And somewhere, beneath the shame, was something deeper.

Not lust. Not power.

Something closer to longing.

She hadn't just come into his bed.

She'd come to him.

⸻

He didn't know when he fell asleep.

But he woke up to her--curled against him, her thigh draped over his, her breath steady against his chest.

Sometime in the night, she'd moved closer. Or maybe he had.

He didn't know.

All he knew was that his arm was around her now.

That his cock was still hard.

And that her hand was resting on his stomach like it belonged there.

Then--she moved.

A soft sigh. A tiny shift.

Her bare thigh dragged across his lap.

Pressed right into him.

Full. Warm. Yielding.

His cock twitched against the softness of her skin, trapped between cotton and sin.

He went still.

Didn't breathe.

Didn't dare.

Her head nuzzled into his shoulder, unaware. Her lips parted slightly. Her hand flexed against his stomach.

She didn't know.

She couldn't.

But his body didn't care.

His cock throbbed. Loud. Insistent. Unignorable.

He clenched his jaw, tried to think of anything else.

But it was too late.

She stirred again and slipped away.

Slid out from under the covers and padded silently toward the bathroom, still half-asleep, shorts riding up the swell of her thighs.

She didn't look back.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And then he lost it.

He shoved the blanket down, pushed his boxers low, and wrapped a hand around his cock with a groan so quiet it barely made sound.

He was already leaking. Already pulsing. The kind of need that didn't ask permission--just took.

He pumped slow--once, twice--then again, harder.

His fist gripped tight, thumb circling the head. His hips jerked. His stomach clenched.

He imagined her skin under his hands. Her breath on his throat. That sleepy little sound she made when her thigh dragged over him.

Then--another image slipped in.

Not her.

Not exactly.

That girl from the video.

The one on the couch in nothing but a tank top and pink socks, curled up in the lap of some older man who kept calling her sweetheart. Baby. Daddy's girl.

His grip tightened, rougher now.

In the video, the man had cradled her like she was breakable. Had spoken to her in a voice Matt could still hear when he closed his eyes.

There you go, little one.

Daddy's got you.

That's it. Just relax for Daddy.

Shame scraped across his ribs like a blade, but it only made him go faster.

Because now it was Grace in the socks. Grace whimpering. Grace letting herself be touched, guided, praised.

His hand was soaked now--slick with need, with guilt, with something he couldn't name.

He stroked harder.

Faster.

She came to me, his mind hissed.

Not to her father. Not to God. To me.

Her breath against his chest.

Her hand on his stomach.

Her thigh, hot and bare, pressing into his cock like she knew what she was doing.

"Such a good girl for Daddy," he whispered.

And then it hit him.

A sudden, vicious release that ripped through his spine.

He came with a grunt--hot, thick, desperate--spilling over his fist and across his stomach in messy stripes.

He kept stroking through it, jaw tight, body shaking, trying to ride it out. Trying to quiet the part of him that wanted to whisper more.

When it was over, he lay still.

Heart pounding.

Cock still twitching.

His mouth still burned with the word Daddy.

The wave of shame for masturbating while imagining his barely-legal little neice cumming, being filled up by her uncle... by him. It would soon punch him relentlessly in the gut.

For good reason.

But not yet.

For now, he just breathed.

The bathroom door didn't close all the way.

He didn't know if she forgot or didn't care.

But the latch didn't catch.

And when he walked past it--half-dressed, guilt thrumming under his skin--he saw her.

Not on purpose. Not at first.

He just glanced.

And then he stopped.

The shower was already running. Steam curling along the edges of the mirror. The curtain wasn't all the way drawn. Just enough of a gap for him to see the curve of her spine. The dip of her waist. The soft, parted shape of her thighs as she stood under the water, head bowed.

His heart punched the inside of his ribs.

She was facing away, her hands in her hair, elbows lifted.

Water slid down the arch of her back.

Over her ass.

Between her legs.

He knew he should turn around.

Knew he shouldn't look.

But he didn't move.

Her body was soft. Pale. Real.

Not posed. Not careful.

Completely unaware.

He saw the faint shadows where her breasts swayed. The under-curve of her belly. The wet shine clinging to her thighs.

Her beautiful little pussy...

She wasn't a fantasy.

She was just... standing there.

Washing her hair.

Lifting one foot to rest on the edge of the tub as she shaved her calf.

And still--

he couldn't look away.

His cock was already hard again.

Still half-aching from earlier.

But this felt different.

Worse.

Hungrier.

Because now she was real in a way no girl on a screen had ever been.

Real in a way that made his hands shake.

She turned slightly, rinsing her arms, and he caught a glimpse of her breast--just one. Soft and full, water gliding over the pink tip.

He exhaled sharply and backed away.

Pressed his forehead to the hallway wall.

Closed his eyes.

She didn't know he'd seen.

Didn't know she was wrecking him without trying.

Without meaning to.

Without even knowing what her body could do to his.

And that, somehow, made it so much worse.

⸻

He found her at the table, already dressed in one of his old sweatshirts.

It swallowed her completely--sleeves down to her knuckles, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. Her damp hair clung to her neck in soft curls. She looked small again. Breakable.

She glanced up when he entered, but didn't smile.

Just nodded.

"Morning."

Her voice was light, careful. Like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to speak yet.

He couldn't speak at all.

Not with the smell of her shampoo in the room. Not with the ghost of her thigh still pressed against his cock like it belonged there. Not with the ache of what he'd done still slick on his skin under his shirt.

He crossed to the counter, fingers trembling, and filled the coffee pot like it was the most important task in the world.

Because if he looked at her--

If he really looked--

He might fall to his knees.

Everything about her felt too loud now.

The quiet. The calm. The way she sat in his kitchen like she'd always belonged there.

She held the mug in both hands, curled around it like it held more than just coffee. She looked soft. Sleep-warm. Unbothered.

His shirt slid up her thighs when she shifted. Just a little. Just enough.

And when she took a sip, her lips caught a bit of foam on the way down. She licked it away without thinking--quick, casual, innocent.

He nearly groaned.

His hand tightened on the counter.

He could still feel her weight against him. Still hear the sound she made when she sighed in her sleep. Still taste the shame of what he'd whispered into the dark while he came, fist clenched, cock throbbing, the word Daddy clinging to his tongue like sin.

⸻

She tucked her feet under herself, still holding the mug close.

"Thank you... Uncle Matt," she said softly, not looking at him. "For last night. For everything."

He nodded once, jaw tight. He couldn't trust his voice not to crack open and spill.

He'd known her since the day she was born.

Held her in his arms when she was barely an hour old, pink and furious and squalling like she had something to prove. He used to make her pancakes shaped like animals. Used to call her Bug and Monkey and carry her on his shoulders through crowded spaces.

She used to fall asleep on his chest with sticky fingers and sun-warmed curls.

She used to call him Uncle Matty.

He hadn't seen her since she was eight.

All knees and gap teeth and glitter nail polish. She'd loved horses back then. Had drawn him pictures of castles and dragons and insisted he hang them on his fridge. She still believed in fairytales.

And now--now she was here.

Not the little girl with skinned knees and jellybean bribes. Not the child who'd once clung to his neck and asked him to push her higher on the swings.

She'd grown.

Not just older--but into herself. All softness and quiet curves and eyes that didn't quite meet his. Her body was fuller now. Thicker. Ripe in a way he had no business noticing.

But he did.

Jesus, he did.

And it wasn't just her breasts or the way her thighs pressed together when she sat like that. It was the way she looked so unsure in her own skin. Like no one had ever taught her she was beautiful. Like no one had ever wanted her gently.

He didn't know who she was now.

Didn't know who he was around her.

All he knew was that she'd come to him. That she'd trusted him. That she'd slept in his bed, curled into his side like it was safe there.

And now she was wearing his shirt. Drinking from his mug. Looking out his window like it could ever show her anything kinder than he wanted to be.

She didn't say anything else.

Didn't ask what it meant.

Didn't seem to notice the way he couldn't meet her eyes. The way his ears were red. The way his breath hitched when she shifted again and the sweatshirt slipped off one bare shoulder like gravity wanted him undone.

She just drank her coffee and looked out the window, still wrapped in the shirt he'd worn to bed.

She had no idea what she was doing to him.

And maybe that made it worse.

She looked down at her mug, tracing the rim with one finger.

"You used to make pancakes with chocolate chip eyes," she said quietly. "And give mine eyelashes."

He didn't respond.

Couldn't.

Because she was talking like nothing had changed.

Like she wasn't undoing him with every breath.

Like he was still the man who used to know how to care for her without wanting to taste her.

And maybe she needed that.

Maybe she didn't know what had changed.

He cleared his throat and turned back to the counter.

"There's a list on the fridge," he said gently. "We'll go out tomorrow. Get you a few things. Clothes. Shampoo. Whatever you need."

Her fingers tightened around the mug.

"Okay," she whispered, like she wasn't used to being offered anything.

Like she didn't quite believe it.

She didn't know what she needed.

But he did.

A decent bra. A warm sweater. Toothpaste that didn't taste like chalk.

Pads. Socks. Underwear that actually fit.

The kind of things no one ever noticed when a girl like her was disappearing.

He'd carry the cart. Steer the errands. Make it feel normal.

Make it feel easy.

He'd take care of her.

The way he used to.

The way she deserved.

Because she was still his girl.

Not his to touch.

Not his to want.

Just--his.

And even if she never knew how deep it went,

he'd give her this.

Every soft, ordinary thing no one ever gave her before.