lizzie

''Emma's told me a lot about you,'' he said, voice measured, shaking your hand like you were an acquaintance from the country club instead of his daughter's best friend. His palm was warm, calloused from whatever project he'd been working on in the garage. ''Welcome.''

His wife, Claire, was the polar opposite. She swept you into a hug, smelled like expensive perfume and immediately declared you part of the family. ''Emma's been raving about you for months. I already feel like I have another daughter.'' She said it with a bright laugh, but you caught the way Harry's jaw tightened just slightly behind her.

That weekend set the tone for the next three years.

Claire invited you to everything: summers at the beach house, weekend trips up the coast, even the annual family ski week in the mountains. She bought you Christmas presents, stocked up on your favorite snacks before you visited, and told anyone who would listen that you were ''the daughter she'd always wished she had.'' You smiled and thanked her because it felt good to be wanted, but you noticed the way Emma's smile faltered every time her mother said it.

You also noticed the way Harry stayed a little more distant. He was polite, protective if need be, but never quite warm. He'd drive you both back to campus after breaks, hands steady on the wheel, asking questions about your classes while Emma chattered in the passenger seat. He never lingered too long. He was just... around.

Emma once confided in you during a whispered conversation on the beach house deck at 2 a.m., wine bottle between you. ''Dad's the one who actually shows up for me, you know? Mum just... picks a favorite and runs with it for a while.'' Her voice had gone flat. ''She can be cruel when she doesn't get what she wants.''

A year ago everything cracked open. The divorce was quiet on the outside, no screaming matches, at least, but Emma told you later that her mum had been chipping away at Harry for years. Cold comments, affairs she didn't even bother hiding, the way she'd pit Emma against him like it was some kind of game. When the papers were signed Emma didn't cry the way most daughters would. She looked relieved. ''I don't have to watch her hurt him anymore,'' she'd said, hugging you tight in the empty hallway of their old house. ''Or me.''

Harry kept the beach house in the settlement. It became the one place that still felt like home for both of them. And you kept getting invited, because Claire might be gone, but the habit of you being part of the family had stuck. Harry never objected. He just nodded when Emma asked if you could come for the summer again, eyes flicking to you for a beat longer than necessary before he looked away.

Which brings you to today.

Another summer, the same beach house with its wide wooden decks and floor-to-ceiling windows that lets the ocean breeze roll straight through the living room. You've been here three days, but Emma's already dragged you to more parties than you care to count.

She's been gushing about a guy she met on the beach yesterday morning, some surf instructor named Andy who's throwing a party at his parents' place further down the coast. She's spent the last hour in front of the mirror in her room, curling her hair and asking you for the third time if her top comes across as ''too eager''.

''You're sure you don't want to come?'' she asks, slipping on her shoes. ''Andy said there's going to be a bonfire and everything.''

You're sprawled on her bed in your bikini top and a pair of denim shorts, lazily scrolling on your phone. The thought of loud music and drunk strangers holds zero appeal tonight. ''I'm good. I've got a book and the pool chairs have my name on them. Go have fun.''

Emma grins, leaning down to kiss your cheek. ''You're the best. Text me if you get bored and I'll come rescue you.'' She pauses at the door. ''Dad's out on the deck if you need anything. He's real broody today, though.''

You nod, waving her off. The front door clicks shut behind her a minute later, and the house settles into that particular kind of quiet that only happens when Emma has left, taking all her chaotic energy with her.

You wander into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Harry's there, standing at the island in black swim shorts and a faded T-shirt that clings to his shoulders and does absolutely nothing to conceal the way the fabric stretches across his chest. You've caught glimpses of the body he hides underneath, one morning last summer when he came back from a run shirtless, and the memory still makes your stomach flip. He's over forty now, silver threading through the curls at his temples, but the years have only sharpened him: stronger, stubbled jaw, rough hands, a quiet confidence that makes the air feel thicker when he's in a room.

He looks up when you enter, green eyes softening. ''Emma head out?''

''Yeah. She said something about a bonfire.''

He nods, wiping his hands on a dish towel. ''There's a new grill I picked up this morning. The old one finally gave up last week. I was going to set it up on the deck but the instructions are in about twelve languages and none of them make sense. You speak a couple, right? Any chance I can bribe you with a cold drink to help me figure it out?''

You smile before you can stop yourself. ''Only if the bribe includes one of those fancy lemonades you make.''

''Deal.''

The two of you carry the big cardboard box out to the deck together, though Harry does most of the heavy lifting, the late afternoon sun warm on your skin. He's careful to keep a respectable distance, the way he always has, but when you crouch down beside him on the wooden planks, your hands brush once by accident, and you shiver.

You spend the next twenty minutes sorting metal parts and reading badly translated instructions while he tries to keep up. Conversation flows easy at first: your final year of uni, the internship you're hoping to land, how Emma's thinking about taking a year off to travel.

He's quiet for a long moment, turning a bolt between his fingers. ''She seems happy tonight,'' he says, not looking at you. ''That Andy guy... you met him?''

''Briefly. Seems nice.''

Harry hums, unconvinced. ''She's been different since the divorce. Lighter. But I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I can't help it.'' He glances sideways at you. ''You've been good for her, though.''

The compliment lands warm in your chest. You shrug, suddenly shy. ''She's been good for me too.''

He sets the wrench down, sitting back on his heels. His T-shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of tanned skin above his shorts. You look away fast.

''You know,'' he says, voice lower, ''Claire used to say you were the daughter she wished she had.'' He sounds bitter. ''Emma hated it. I hated it. Not because it's not true— you're great— but she made everything a competition. Truth be told, I think Emma feels like she was never enough for her mother.''

You swallow. ''I know. Emma's told me.''

He nods, eyes on the half-assembled grill. ''Guts me, y'know? To think I let my little girl feel that way for so long. I should've left sooner.''

You reach out without thinking, resting your hand lightly on his forearm. His skin is warm from the sun. ''You shouldn't beat yourself up over that, Harry. She's okay. She's happier. And she's got you.''

He looks up at you then, green eyes searching your face like he's trying to decide whether to believe you. The late afternoon light catches the silver at his temples and the faint lines around his eyes. For a moment the air feels heavier, the ocean sounds dampened.

''I just didn't want her to come from a broken home,'' he admits. He flinches almost immediately, realizing what he's said. Emma's told him that your parents had a messy, ugly divorce when you were twelve, and that you still don't talk about much.

''Shit,'' he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw. ''That was insensitive. I'm sorry.''

You shake your head, offering a small smile. ''It's okay. Really. I understand. And I really do think Emma's better off. She doesn't have to walk on eggshells anymore. Neither do you.''

He holds your gaze a second longer, then nods once, slow. Something in his shoulders loosens. The two of you go back to the grill in companionable silence for a while, passing tools, reading instructions, occasionally brushing fingers when you hand him a bolt. Every small touch feels bigger than it should. By the time the last piece clicks into place, the sun has lowered, painting the deck in warm gold.

Harry steps back, wiping his hands on his shorts, and surveys the finished grill with a satisfied nod. ''Not bad.''

You laugh softly. ''We make a decent team.''

His eyes flick to you, something unreadable flickering across his face before he clears his throat. ''I owe you that lemonade.''

Inside the kitchen the air is cooler. You perch on one of the tall barstools at the island counter, stretching your sore back.

Harry moves around the space with easy familiarity, pulling lemons from the bowl, slicing them with quick, precise strokes. You watch the way his arms flex under the thin white T-shirt, the way the fabric shifts across his shoulders when he reaches for the sugar.

He catches you staring.

For a beat his hands still on the cutting board. His eyes meet yours across the counter, dark and knowing. He doesn't say anything. Just holds the look for a second too long before going back to squeezing lemons into the pitcher. The silence stretches, thick and charged.

When he finally slides the glass toward you, condensation beading on the sides, you just take it with a quiet ''thank you.'' Your fingers brush.

You lift the glass. ''To... beach houses and finished grills.''

He clinks his own glass against yours, the sound bright in the quiet kitchen. ''To finished grills,'' he huffs, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips.

You both sip. The lemonade is perfect, tart, sweet, ice-cold. But the air between you feels anything but refreshing. Harry leans against the opposite counter, watching you over the rim of his glass. The space between you feels smaller than it ever has.

''Your birthday's soon, isn't it?'' he asks eventually, voice low.

Your heart stutters. ''Yeah. I usually celebrate with Emma at the beach, but she might be too preoccupied with Andy this year.''

Harry hums, reaching past you for the pitcher of lemonade he'd set on the counter earlier. His arm brushes your shoulder as he does it, innocent, accidental, but for a second you're trapped in that small pocket of space between his body and the island, the scent of sunscreen and salt and him filling your lungs.

You're close enough to see the way his throat works when he swallows, the way his eyes flick down to your mouth subconciously.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

You lean in imperceptibly closer. ''Harry...''

He exhales sharply, like the sound of his name on your lips hurts him.

But he doesn't move away.

So you rise up on your toes and kiss him.

For one terrible second he stays completely still. Then a low, broken sound escapes him and he kisses you back, hungry, desperate, like he's been holding it in for years. His hands finally leave the counter to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss turns messy fast: tongues sliding, teeth grazing, breaths shared in short, ragged gasps.

He pulls away as if your lips burned him, and steps back until his hips hit the opposite counter, hands coming up between you like he's trying to physically hold the distance. ''You're a beautiful woman,'' he says, voice rough and strained. ''God, you are. But I can't do this. You're Emma's best friend. My daughter's best friend. I can't—''

''I know,'' you whisper, stepping into the space he just tried to create. ''I didn't even know you felt... You've been avoiding me for years.''

He laughs once, short, almost frustrated. ''Because I feel it. This is exactly why I've always steered clear of you. Every time you walked into the house, every summer, every time you visited... I had to keep my distance. Because if I let myself look at you the way I wanted to—''

The confession hangs between you, raw and desperate. His chest rises and falls faster now, restraint visibly fraying.

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing his jaw. ''Would it really be so terrible?''

He catches your wrist, but doesn't pull your hand away. ''We can't. This is wrong. Emma trusts me. She trusts you. I'm her father, for fuck's sake.''

''I know it's wrong,'' you breathe, leaning in until your lips are inches from his. ''But I can't pretend anymore. And neither can you.''

He makes a low, pained sound, and then his restraint finally snaps.

He kisses you like he's starving.

It's not soft. It's hungry, aggressive, years of carefully buried want crashing out all at once. His mouth claims yours, tongue sliding deep, teeth nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. His hands drop to your waist, gripping hard as he walks you backward until your back hits the island counter. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other yanking your denim shorts down your legs in one rough motion.

''Fuck,'' he groans against your lips, barely pulling back enough to speak. ''We shouldn't be doing this. Not here. Not like this.''

But he doesn't stop.

You shove his T-shirt up and he rips it off in one impatient movement, tossing it somewhere behind him. Your hands roam over his chest, nails dragging down his stomach as he yanks your bikini top loose. The moment your breasts are bare he groans, mouth descending to suck one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing, tongue flicking until you're arching against him with a broken whimper.

''Harry, please.''

He curses again, pained and wrecked, but his hands are already desperately pushing your bikini bottoms down your legs. The fabric pools on the floor. He lifts you onto the counter in one smooth motion, stepping between your spread thighs, then reaches between you to shove his own shorts down just enough.

He's hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip. You reach for him but he catches your wrist, breathing ragged.

''Condom,'' he rasps. ''In my wallet.''

His wallet is on the counter barely two feet away from you, and you fish a condom out of it with shaking fingers. He rolls it on quickly, jaw tight, eyes never leaving your face. When he lines himself up at your entrance he pauses, forehead pressed to yours.

''Last chance,'' he rasps, voice wrecked. ''Tell me to stop. Tell me this is a mistake.''

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. ''It's a big fucking mistake. But don't you dare stop.''

''Fuck it,'' he breathes out and thrusts into you in one hard, deep stroke.

The stretch is intense, bordering on too much, but the burn feels perfect. He buries his face in your neck with a guttural groan, hips already snapping forward in rough, desperate thrusts that rock the barstool. One hand grips the counter behind you for leverage, the other digs into your hip, holding you exactly where he needs you.

''God, you're so fucking wet,'' he pants against your skin. ''My daughter's best friend and you're dripping down my cock. What the hell are we doing?''

You moan loudly; he slaps a hand over your mouth, eyes flashing with panic and lust.

''Quiet,'' he hisses, rutting into you. ''Do you want the entire beach to know you're getting fucked by your best friend's father?''

The words only make you clench harder around him. He fucks you faster, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet kitchen. The barstool you'd been sitting on earlier gets kicked over in the frenzy, clattering to the floor, but he doesn't even slow down.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wild. ''This is so wrong. Emma will never forgive us if she finds out.''

''I know,'' you gasp against his palm, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking your eyes. ''But it feels so good. Don't fucking stop.''

He curses viciously, hips slamming into you harder, the force making the counter creak. He fucks you like he's punishing both of you for wanting this, for finally giving in.

You come first, hard and sudden, walls fluttering around him as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You cry out against his hand, and he follows right after with a choked, broken groan, burying himself deep as he spills into the condom, hips jerking through every pulse.

For several long seconds you stay locked together, panting, foreheads pressed together, his cock still twitching inside you.

''We can't ever do that again,'' he whispers.

Neither of you believes it, but you nod anyway, even as your fingers stay curled in his hair.

Then headlights sweep across the front windows.

A car pulls into the driveway.

''Shit. Emma,'' you whisper, panic slicing through the haze.

Harry pulls out quickly, both of you moving in frantic, uncoordinated bursts. He yanks his shorts up, disposes of the condom in the bin under the sink, and grabs his T-shirt from the floor. You slide off the counter on shaky legs, pulling your bikini top back into place and scrambling for your shorts and bottoms. You both smooth your hair, wipe sweat from your skin, and try to look normal.

Harry puts some distance between you just as the front door opens.

Emma bursts in, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with excitement, completely oblivious.

''Oh my god, you guys missed the best party!'' she exclaims, kicking off her shoes. ''Andy's so funny. You should've heard his stories tonight!'' She pauses, tilting her head. ''Why is there a barstool on the ground?''

You and Harry share a look, the reality of what just happened settling over both of you like cold water, and you subtly shake your head.

Never again.

...

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