I peek at him over my shoulder, forcing a smile. “No, I know. I’m just tired.”

Leaving the room quickly, while trying to act like I’m feeling totally normal inside, I stumble up the steps into my bedroom. Once inside with the door closed, I take in a long breath, squeezing my eyes shut while releasing it slowly.

I hate everything about what I’ve become. A thorn in the side of the person I love most in this world. The only person I love, for that matter.

I feel like such a moron as I pace around my bedroom. Obsessing over my own father—figure—for years, like a total creep. I just want these feelings to go away, but I’m not sure they ever will. It’s like a sickness… A terminal disease with no cure.

Trust me, I’ve tried to transfer the feelings onto others. I’ve hooked up with a few guys, more in the past year than before. I didn’t even have my first kiss until I was fifteen, because I never wanted to give it to anyone who wasn’t my own goddamn guardian. But I finally bit the bullet and did it. And it felt… so fucking wrong.

But I kept getting back up on that horse, only to be tossed off every time in disappointment. I lost my virginity six months ago to a dude from school, and even that just felt like a means to an end.

We’ve fucked a couple of times since, and it’s alright I guess, because he’s hot. He’s the captain of the football team, but he’s straight, so no one’s allowed to know he likes putting his dick in guys. Not that I even care, because I don’t want anything from him. Anything but a meaningless distraction.

An ultimate dissatisfaction.

Crawling into my bed beneath the covers, I grab my phone where it’s been charging on the nightstand. Speak of the devil, I have a new text from Tanner. I open it to find a dick pic, and I roll my eyes. Why am I not surprised one bit?

It’s a decent dick, and I guess it sort of gives my own erection some traction, but not much. I’m too lost in my own head, too focused on my sick crush to even bother responding. Instead, I stuff my phone under the pillow next to me and close my eyes.

My hand slithers down to the waistband of my sweats, slipping inside and grazing myself over my boxers. Teasing my hardening flesh, my mind swims with images of the man downstairs. The man who’s almost twice my age, and technically my father. Though not by blood, it’s still wrong. I’ve known him literally my entire life. He raised me… Changed my diapers and shit.

It’s twisted.

He taught me how to ride a bike, how to shave, how to drive; he comforted me when I got hurt, and scolded me when I fucked up. He’s been my fucking father my whole life, yet now I look at him like he’s supposed to be more than that.