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Birthdays have never felt quite right to you.

It’s not that your dad’s a total deadbeat. Honest. From cradle to college, he paid up your child support just fine. If he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have heard the end of it from mama — she’d kept you up more nights than you could remember ranting about him over the phone. You’d kept yourself up, sometimes — ear pressed to the door in some desperate attempt to learn more about him. And you learned plenty. Dad’s name was Leon, dad’s job was something you couldn’t spell yet, and dad’s favorite things to do were drink and hide. Like a dog. One of the stray types around your neighborhood that went around knocking up everything that ought to stay chaste. Dad never missed a child support payment but somehow managed to miss every single one of your birthdays. There was always an excuse. When you were little, it was something vague about his job scribbled in the corner of the occasional postcard he’d send. When the postcards stopped coming, it was something about liquor mumbled over the table during your birthday dinner. There’s still an empty chair in the back of your mind where dad should be, waiting for you to blow out the candles.

You didn’t like to dwell on the fact that other girls your age were watching their fathers grow old and cliché, so you tried to forget about your birthdays as soon as they passed. It got easier as you got older. With each passing year, your birthday became a little more unremarkable, so dad not showing up got a little easier to get over each time. This year, it’d taken three days to convince yourself that you were over it. Record time. Shit should’ve gotten you into the Olympics.

Until he decided to show up.

“Uh… happy birthday,” he said, clearing his throat and trailing your name a moment later like he was worried about pronouncing it wrong.

It’d been a month since your birthday, and dad had hungover written right between the eyes, but he was here. Right on your welcome mat, he was here. Realer than Jesus to a southerner. Close enough to count the lashes on his lids. You’d been tempted to, just because you could, but you didn’t — there were a million things that photograph on the mantle didn’t get quite right, and a million more it couldn’t begin to fathom. You’d forgotten to respond for a moment, transfixed on the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, before he cleared his throat again.

“My birthday was a month ago,” you admitted with that slow tone parents use to tell their kids the truth about Santa Claus. Didn’t work. The effect was immediate. He blinked, scratched the back of his neck, and looked around your doorstep for a moment like someone was coming to save him.

“Shit, really? Swear, I had it pulled up,” he muttered, fishing his phone from his pocket and clumsily swiping through his camera roll. You stood awkwardly in the doorway, heel tapping benignly against the step. His brow furrowed when he scrolled to a blurry image of your birth certificate — bringing the screen to his face and zooming in on your date of birth. You would’ve laughed at the way he scowled, if he hadn’t been your dad who just forgot your birthday.

“My bad, sweetheart… my memory must be going,” he said, grimacing as the clouds overhead parted — spilling sunshine at your feet. Leon looked out of place within it. Like a child’s scribble in the background of a landscape painting.

You nodded when he didn’t continue the sentence, clasping and unclasping your hands. “Well… it’s the thought that counts, right?” Stupid fucking sentence. You didn’t want to think about what mama would’ve done if she’d heard you make that excuse for him. You knew better, he knew better, and you’d both be better off closing the door and keeping it locked.

He agreed before you’d managed to picture her frown entirely, face lighting up like you’d offered to put him down. Maybe it was relieving to him, seeing a fraction of your mother extend the olive branch. Maybe reading into it too deeply was your way of coping. You nodded toward the open doorway before you could think twice about it, and when he stepped into your apartment, you swore you could hear mama sigh somewhere in the wind.

Dad sat rigid on your couch as the sun dipped beneath your windowsill. He’d been lax enough, at first — but after he’d asked you about school and your apartment and your grades and how mama was holding up, the air got a little too thick for talking. You’d switched on the television when the conversation slowed; he’d pretended to be invested. You could’ve called bullshit standing a mile away — nobody’s eyes glaze over like that when the subtitles are on. Nobody frowns like that to a fucking romcom. Dad probably thought you were stupid, if he cared enough to think of you at all. Fuck, awkward as he was, you wanted him to stay. You wanted him to sit pretty and tense on your couch forever. His eyes haphazardly darted to yours, flitting back to the television when you made eye contact. The way his face drained made you wonder if he’d learned to read minds while working for the government. You don’t believe in that sort of thing, but you still crossed your fingers when the thought crossed your mind.

But you knew he liked liquor. More than anything, you knew he liked liquor. Maybe he was fresh out — maybe you were his last resort. That should’ve sickened you. It didn’t. You reveled in the thought of dad needing you like you’d needed him, so you stood up after ten minutes of silence, digging out an unopened six-pack from the depths of your fridge and presenting him with the case.

“I’m alright. You don’t have to get anything for me. Thanks, sweetheart,” dad said, blinking for the first time in minutes. You sighed, arm still extended as you stepped back over.

“It’s not just for you,” you said. “I’m drinking, too.”

His brow furrowed for a moment — like he was trying to recall if you could legally follow through on that — but it raised again, soon enough, and he took the beer with a muttered thank-you.

Your hands stung as you pried the cap off, face crinkling as you took a sip. Shit was acidic. You wondered if it took effort to get addicted to this sort of thing. It’d take you more time than you’d care to spend just to tolerate the taste.

“Why’d you come to see me?”

He froze, dipping back the bottle to avoid your question for a second more. “Thought it was your birthday.”

“Yeah, but you’ve not… y’know,” you trailed off, hesitant to present him with his own mistakes. “You’ve not come to any of my other ones.”

“Fair enough.”

You waited for dad to say anything else. He didn’t. The insurance commercial humming in the background somehow became more captivating than anything you had to say. You huffed like your heart wasn’t sinking and shifted to face the wall. He didn’t react. You turned back.

“I just don’t get it,” you said, biting your tongue before what you really wanted to ask had a chance to fall out of your mouth. Wouldn’t have mattered either way. Dad had that look in his eyes again. Like he’d called up someone to come and save him, and they weren’t quite here yet.

“When you have a job like mine,” he started, tracing his index around the rim of the bottle, “You don’t get time off to come and eat cake. Just wanted to meet you at… some point.”

You nodded, feigning interest in the drink you’d taken two sips from. You didn’t ask him why he didn’t come and visit during all those times he’d wound up at the bar, but he seemed to hear it anyway — standing up and settling the bottle on the carpet. You straightened up, too, mouth opening before you knew quite what to say: “Where are you going?”

Dad pretended to smooth out the front of his shirt, clearing his throat. “Got an early assignment tomorrow.” Bullshit. You’d heard enough about his coworkers prying him from the bottle during office hours to know that he couldn’t have cared less about punctuality or assignments or whatever the hell else they did over there. You weren’t as stupid as he must’ve thought you were. A stupid girl would’ve confronted him right there and hoped the guilt was enough to glue him back to the couch — you knew better than that.

“Can I have a hug?”

You doubted that any amount of rehearsal could’ve made that sound natural. But something in your face must’ve looked natural enough, because his shoulders slumped a little by the time the words left your mouth. He paused for a moment, swallowing thickly and kneeling slightly before you. His arms opened in the same breath as yours. Felt like something you’d dream.

It really was supposed to be a kiss on the cheek. Honest. Hand over his daddy’s Bible. You had the same puppy eyes as your mama, same eyes that convinced him to forget the condom two decades ago. Least he could do was pretend to be the daddy you’d deserved for half a second. But you’d straightened up a little too far when he’d stood to leave, bumped the corner of your mouth right up against his lips when he went to peck your cheek. Turned into the sort of kiss he’d leave a one-night stand with before he left their line dead forever. Real romantic shit. His dick was a real romantic too, apparently, because he didn’t pull away, turning his head till your lips pressed up against his. His thoughts had gone cloddish with whatever incestuous curse you’d fermented in that beer can, because in that instant, you were the stranger you’d been two hours ago — he didn’t know you, you didn’t know him, and every curtain in the world was drawn.

Dad kissed you like he’d been starved of it — shit, he probably was. That blonde in your baby album was well-fucked. You could tell — dad used to be all bright eyes and baby fat. Time threw him through the gutter. You’d like to think that you wouldn’t have given him a second glance if you’d caught sight of him wasting alive in some dive. Mama always told you to stay away from the sort that can’t help themselves — everyone’s mama ought to, you thought. But she couldn’t, and you couldn’t either. You kissed dad back like oxygen was an afterthought. Like making love would make him love you. His fingers twitched when you tried to lace them with yours, hand flinching to retract as he broke it.

“Please stay,” you mumbled against his lips, breaths tangling with his in some subconscious effort to tie him down. The words are ripped from your throat before they feel natural to you, before your voice sounds like your own. “Stay here, this time.”

“Baby…” dad sighed, voice clipped. Restrained in a way you never wanted to hear from him again. “You know we can’t do this. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Nobody has to know, dad,” you started, reaching for his hand again. You’d said the line a little more seductively in your head, but somehow your voice fucked up in your throat and came out breathy and frantic instead. Dad probably thought you were something out of a Freudian case study. But if there was one thing you knew about men, it was that the quickest way to one’s head was his cock. Head, not heart — but you weren’t picky. You couldn’t afford to be picky when dad had one foot out the door. “The front door’s locked.”

You made sense of exactly what sort of man dad was when he turned his head to check — men who don’t want to fuck their daughters don’t have any reason to keep the door locked. Maybe it’d been on his mind since he’d stepped in. Maybe that’d been the real reason he’d stopped by. The thought wasn’t as revolting to you as it should’ve been. The least he could do for you now was think you were pretty.

Dad’s lips were on yours again before you had time to think of an answer. You made a note to ask him for another kiss after this — one of those soft ones on the forehead you’d grown up watching your friends get. No tongue. No erection against your thigh. No hands fumbling to bunch up your skirt and no fingers hooking under your panties and tugging them to the side.

You crossed your fingers out of his line of sight when he spread your thighs, praying that he couldn’t tell you were a virgin. God frowned upon you. You took his index just fine, but the second his middle finger shifted to scissor your hole open, your eyes scrunched closed and your breath trailed off into a hiss. Shit stung. Dad’s fingers weren’t thick, exactly, but they were thicker than yours. Thick enough to hurt. Thick enough to make you act on reflex.

“You alright, baby?”

Fuck, you hated that tone. Hated how often you heard it in your dreams. He was supposed to talk like that when you fell off your bike and scraped your knee. He was supposed to say that after you’d broken up with your first boyfriend in seventh grade. Stupid fucking thought. Maybe dad cock turned everyone into a sap. You straightened up against the cushions a little, nodding. “Yeah. M’fine.”

You tried not to react when his thumb trailed from your labia to your clit, circling languidly enough to piss you off. He must’ve read you then, too, because he laughed under his breath when your brow furrowed, rolling the tip of his thumb over the pearl.

“Been a while, sweetheart… go easy on me.”

And suddenly, you’re wetter than you’ve ever been in your goddamn life. Wet enough to see it on dad’s knuckles when he withdrew his hand, popping open the button of his jeans. God, at least he was hard. You would’ve killed yourself right there otherwise. All that just for his dick to go limp — but it wasn’t. It nudged his palm when he tugged down the fabric, pre beading at the tip. First dick you’d ever seen up close, attached to the first man you were never supposed to fuck.

You heard his breath hitch when you pulled the fabric of your top over your tits, cock visibly twitching in his hand. Spoke for itself. Dad was still dressed above you, fumbling through his jacket pocket for his wallet. Your eyes darted to the blanket folded over the couch cushion.

“Shit,” he muttered, thumbing through the contents of his wallet. “You got a condom?”

You shook your head fast enough to scramble your thoughts. “We don’t need one. It’ll be fine.” Sorry, mama.

“I don’t know about that, baby…” dad started, memories of your own conception rolling around to the forefront of his mind — until you huffed, unclipping your bra and sliding the straps down your shoulders. Fuck, you had nice tits. He’d gotten a lot better at pulling out, hadn’t he? Sure he had. You didn’t have any siblings scattered around that motel he’d spent half his thirties in. That he knew of. But you weren’t like those girls he’d slept with — you were his girl, and his girl was smart enough to manage her own apartment and pick up Plan B at the drugstore. Yeah, you’d be alright.

The stretch wasn’t as bad as you’d thought it’d be. Dad paused when he’d sheathed the tip in your cunt, shifting his hold on your hips. You were still in one piece. Fucked in the name of God, fucked in the eyes of the law, fucked in the record of any therapist worth their license — but his dick hadn’t managed to split you in half yet. Good enough. Your insides went syrupy when he groaned, sheathing his cock to the base before he could stop himself.

“Fuck… sorry, sweetheart,” he muttered, breathy and low enough to make your heart swell. You didn’t say anything — wide-eyed and breathless and full enough to make your head go fuzzy. Dad’s cock felt bigger than it looked, felt better than his hand, stuffed you nicer than your own fingers ever could. Christ, he’d forgotten what virgin cunt felt like — the way it clenched around his dick hard enough to cut circulation and throbbed for attention the second he pulled back.

“More,” you mumbled, head tilting forward as his fingernails left little divots down your waist, clit twitching each time it bumped up against dad’s abdomen. He’d softened up in the years since he’d sent you a picture with his postcards, padded around his stomach in that domestic way that makes dads look like dads. Fuck, you could be domestic with him. You’d fuck him all the time if he came home every day. “Please— fuck, more—“

He smiled when your thighs twitched, hips stuttering as he guided them, breaths rattling along your ribcage. “Feels good, huh?” dad chuckled, circling your clit with his thumb. “Didn’t think you’d like getting fucked this much.”

You nodded, eyes squeezing shut when he bottomed out again, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “Only by you, dad, really— only by you,” you babbled like a broken alarm, slick shiny around the base of his dick. “Come back and fuck me again, won’t fuck anyone else, promise—“

Dad went rigid at that, balls tightening as he inhaled, coil snapping in the pit of his belly. Shit, that’s what made him cum now? Monogamy with his flesh and blood? Exclusive access to his daughter’s cunt? He pulled out fast enough to hurt your feelings, cumming down your lower tummy, eyes glassy and pupils blown as he gripped the fat of your hip. You smiled when he eased up, eyes darting around the living room for a tissue. Felt good to do something right. Felt better than sex to be taken care of.

“I love you…” you mumbled, eyelids drooping and cheek smushed against his shoulder. And you mean it. You think you do, at least. You’ve wanted to love dad since you found out you had one.

Dad patted your shoulder, suddenly tense in a way he prayed you couldn’t pick up on. (You did. Anyone could’ve.) “Love you, too.” It’s hollow and restrained in a way that nobody who really loves somebody is capable of producing.

If you could be who he wanted, you would. You’d change yourself in half a second. Turn your skin to glass and your blood to whiskey just to feel him kiss you for a second. But you stay yourself, and that’s enough to make him keep the door quiet on the way out.

It was a sad sight. Your pale face splattered with blood, eyes open and empty. Leon removed a glove to touch your arm.

Still warm.

He had liked you. Liked you a lot, actually. The way you cutely greeted him in the morning, or even bringing him a coffee when you knew he'd been working too hard. But things never really got further than a few flirty smiles here and there. And now they never would.

Leon slid a muscular arm under your knees and lifted your upper body off the ground. Your head drooped limply, and the moonlight casted an almost angelic glow onto your corpse. He laid you among the shadows, as private of a resting place as you'd get on the field. And he should leave you. Should walk away and forget your pretty face.

Instead, his hand slid over your chest, touch almost casual if not for the way he lingered at your breast. You'd only lose more warmth if he waited, a dark murmuring voice told him. His gut coiled.

Your cunt was soft like velvet, not exactly wet, but as welcoming as a dead girl's cunt could be. At least this way he didn't have to worry about your pleasure, he could be as selfish as he wanted.