I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him read the newspaper at the table.

“Morning, Dad,” I said.

He lowered the paper. “Chloe. You’re up early.”

I took a slow step forward, my bare feet silent on the tile. I wore his favorite sweater—gray, oversized, falling off one shoulder. It smelled like him. I didn’t wear a bra.

His eyes flicked down. Just for a second. Then back to my face.

“You should eat something,” he said. His voice was flat.

“I’m not hungry.” I leaned against the counter near him, close enough to feel the heat from his body. “Unless you count wanting *you* as hunger.”

He folded the newspaper. Precise. Deliberate. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke.” I reached out and touched his wrist. His pulse jumped under my fingers. “I’m legal now. Eighteen yesterday. You signed the card.”

“You’re my daughter.”

“Stepdaughter,” I corrected. “Not blood. Not family. Just… living under the same roof. Sharing the same space. The same silence.”

He pulled his hand away. Stood up. “This stops now.”

I didn’t move. “You don’t want it to stop.”

“I’m twice your age.”

“I know how old you are. I’ve always known.” I tilted my head. “You look at me when you think I can’t see. At dinner. In the hallway. When I come downstairs in shorts.”

“That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not.” I stood and faced him. “Because you haven’t left. You haven’t sent me to live with Mom. You haven’t changed the locks. You haven’t called a therapist. You haven’t even told me to leave your room when I borrow your shirts.”

He turned toward the sink. “You’re testing boundaries.”

“I’m claiming what I want.”

He looked at me then—really looked. Not just a glance. A long, hard stare that burned.

“Go to your room, Chloe.”

I smiled. “Make me.”