The front door clicked shut behind me as I stepped into the familiar chaos of my home. The scent of lemon cleaner mixed with something sweet hung in the air—my daughter’s perfume, no doubt. I tossed my keys onto the entryway table, where they clattered against a stack of unopened mail.

“Emma?” I called out, my voice echoing through the empty foyer. No response. I made my way toward the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of my dress shirt. That’s when I heard it—the soft thumping of bass coming from upstairs.

I took the stairs two at a time, my polished shoes silent on the carpet. The music grew louder as I approached Emma’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open without knocking. She jumped at the sudden intrusion, her fingers flying from the keyboard of her laptop.

“Jesus, Dad!” she exclaimed, slamming the computer closed. Her cheeks were flushed, and her dark hair was tousled around her shoulders. She was wearing one of my old college t-shirts—a fact that had been making me increasingly aware of her as a woman lately—and a pair of tiny denim shorts that showed off her long legs.

“What’s going on up here?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual despite the tightness in my pants. At twenty-two, Emma was all curves and confidence, a far cry from the little girl who used to follow me around the house begging for piggyback rides.

“I’m just… studying,” she stammered, reaching for a textbook that lay abandoned beside her on the bed. But her eyes darted nervously back to the closed laptop.