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I make breakfast, and he perches on the counter, swinging his bare feet, talking about sleeve construction like it’s the most important thing in the world.

I work at the table while he colors nearby, the scratch of wax against paper keeping time with my typing.

Sometimes I hear the sewing machine from down the hall.

Sometimes he wanders into whatever room I’m in, says nothing, and climbs into my lap because that is simply where he belongs.

At night, he falls asleep touching me. Always.

A hand on my chest, a leg thrown over mine, his face tucked into my shoulder.

Something.

As if even unconscious, he needs proof I’m still there. Maybe I need the proof too.

I finish my coffee, rinse the mug, then realize the house is suspiciously quiet.

Kammie went into his room twenty minutes ago, and when I tried to follow, he actually pushed me out toward the hallway with both hands.

“Daddy, go.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m busy.”

“How are you already busy when you just walked in here?”

“I just am.”

Suspicious at the time. Now, in this thick silence, it feels even more so.

I dry my hands on the dish towel and head down the hallway. His door isn’t shut, just resting on the frame, a sliver of dim room visible. I knock once, the sound absorbed by the wood.

“Kammie?”

He replies immediately, his voice pitched high with panic, “Don’t come in!”

Well.

Obviously, I’m going in.

The door swings inward without resistance.

“Kammie, what the hell are you—”

The words die. My brain stutters to a halt.

He stands before the full-length mirror we bought three days ago, its silver frame gleaming dully in the afternoon light filtering through his blinds. He’s half-turned away from me, profile sharp against the glass. His blond hair is a mess of soft waves at the top of his head; his legs are bare, each toenail carefully painted with pink polish.

And he is wearing—

Jesus fucking Christ.

A sheer fuchsia babydoll.