Page 57 of Ruined

“Yes,” I whisper. “All I needed… was Daddy.” I’m barely aware of what I’m saying, mindlessly nuzzling into his neck as he pulls me into his embrace. “Mm, Daddy…”

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

He is, and I never want him to leave. Never.

He left you once, though.

Crap, I shouldn’t have let that thought enter my mind. It opens the door to a world of fears, and when I entertain even the slightest possibility of him leaving, a stab of anxiety cools the warmth in my veins.

He left me once—what if he leaves me again? Ever since we reunited, he’s fought me every step of the way, resisted blurring the lines between us. Now they’re blurred beyond recognition, and they can’t be unblurred. What if… what if it becomes too much for him? What if something finally makes him back off for good?

I put my head on his warm chest, and his heart beats steadily against my ear. He’s warm, all of him—soft and gentle and everything I’ve ever needed. My daddy. We’ve been running on adrenaline all this time, throwing caution to the wind and not thinking about the consequences, even though they’re loud and clear.

Lane knows. He knows we can’t keep our relationship hidden from my mom and Mason forever. Mason finding out would be bad enough, but if Mom finds out, fuck… I have no idea how Logan will react. He still thinks our relationship is wrong, despite everything. He thinks he’s wrong to be with me, and there’s no way Mom would think otherwise.

I cuddle closer until I’m practically on top of him, my leg slung over his hip. He’s already asleep, and I should be sleeping, too. Despite what might happen, I can’t do anything about it right now. For now, I close my eyes and try to keep my mind from spiraling. Yawning against his chest, I focus on his heartbeat instead of my thoughts.

Thump, thump, thump.

Steady, warm, and safe. I want to stay like this forever. Want Daddy to take care of me always, despite what the world might think. I’m done being ashamed of wanting him, and I can only hope he’s not ashamed of wanting me.

21. HARDLY A LIFE

In the morning, Oliver tells me he’s free all weekend—a rare occurrence, so I plan to make it count.

He’s still sleeping when I get up, so I close the door softly and let him snooze while I make breakfast: my signature pancakes with blueberries, vanilla, and maple syrup. He always used to love those. When I enter the bedroom, balancing the pancakes and a glass of milk on a tray, he still isn’t up yet, so I set the tray on the nightstand and sit on the side of the bed, watching him for a while.

His hair is sleep-mussed, and his cute snoring fills the room. I stroke his arm, not wanting to wake him but wanting him to know that I’m here for him. That I’m ready to take care of whatever he needs.

I glance out the window, where the sun shines while the city’s waking up. I’d like to take him somewhere today. I haven’t decided where yet, but it doesn’t really matter where we go—only that we’re together.

“Daddy?” he mumbles sleepily and yawns.

“Morning.” When I lean in to kiss him on the forehead, he pulls me closer into a clumsy hug. Chuckling, I smooth a hand over his hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Didn’t sleep so well, but I’ll be…” He trails off when he sees the breakfast tray on the nightstand. Eyes widening, he stares at the pancakes, then at me, and I nod with a smile. I expect him to thank me and dig in, but instead, his lip starts trembling, and his eyes fill with tears.

“Hey.” I scoot closer, putting a hand on his thigh. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, but the shakiness of his voice and the tears glimmering in his eyes make me think otherwise.

Then I realize I sometimes did this for him when he was a child—breakfast in bed, that is. Only on weekend mornings, and only when he’d seemed down the night before. He didn’t mind if I woke him up, and I’d sit on the side of his bed and drink coffee while he ate.

We’d talk about the weekend ahead, and then, as he warmed up, we’d talk about what had been bothering him the night before. Whether it was someone teasing him at school or him failing a level at his newest gaming obsession, I’d try to console him simply by being there and letting him tell me.

Back then, I was grateful to be that steady presence in Oliver’s life, his parental figure, even though he wasn’t my child. Now, though, I look back at that time through a complicated lens.

It’s not a tainted lens, not really, but times are so different now—so beyond what I could ever have imagined. We’re different, and we’re different from each other, while in many ways we’re the same. I still don’t know how to contend with those differences and what I’ve done to change us. The boundaries I’ve broken irreversibly.

“You always used to make these on the weekends,” Oliver mumbles. “Sundays, though—not Saturdays. Do you remember?”

“Yeah.” So he had the same thoughts I did. The same memories. That explains why he got emotional.

“You were supposed to make them that day.”

“That day?” I ask with a frown.

“The day you left.”