Harry and Lexie - the Beginning

Hi! This is a slow burn between a father and his daughter that might have multiple parts. All characters are +18.

Harry's POV

It was a Tuesday night, a few weeks after Lexie's 18th birthday, and the house felt quieter than usual. Bridget was out, some late meeting at the office, she'd said, her voice clipped over the phone. I didn't press her. She'd been distant for months, and I'd gotten used to filling the gaps with work or a beer in front of the TV. Lexie was home, though, her presence loud in a way that crept up on me lately. She'd been different since turning 18, like she'd shed some invisible skin and stepped into herself: sharper, bolder, a little too alive for our muted little life.

I was in the kitchen, rinsing a plate, when she came in. She was barefoot, wearing one of those loose tank tops that slipped off one shoulder and a pair of cutoff shorts that barely qualified as clothing. Her hair was damp from a shower, dark strands sticking to her neck, and she smelled like that coconut shampoo she'd used since she was a kid. Nothing unusual there. She'd always been casual at home, always been comfortable. But tonight, something felt...off.

"Hey, Daddy," she said, dragging out the word just enough to make me glance up from the sink. She leaned against the counter, hip cocked, watching me with those big, hazel eyes that always seemed to see too much. "You're so domestic tonight. What's next, an apron?"

I chuckled, shook my head. "Someone's gotta keep this place from falling apart. Your mom's not exactly volunteering."

She smirked, a quick flash of teeth, and hopped up to sit on the counter, her legs dangling. "Yeah, well, she's too busy being important somewhere else. She leaves you stuck with me." Her tone was light, teasing, but there was an edge to it, something I couldn't place. She swung her feet, the motion lazy, and her toes brushed my thigh as I turned to grab a towel. It was quick, accidental maybe, but my pulse jumped all the same.

"Stuck with you isn't so bad," I said, keeping it easy, drying my hands. I told myself it was nothing. She was just being Lexie--brash, a little mouthy, the way she'd been since she hit her teens. But then she tilted her head, resting her chin in her hand, and her lips curved into this slow, lopsided smile.

"Good to know," she said, her voice dropping softer, almost playful. "I'd hate to think I'm a burden to my Daddy." She stretched out the last two words, letting them hang there, and her eyes didn't leave mine. It wasn't a look I'd seen from her before--not like that. Not so...deliberate.

I felt my throat tighten, and for a split second, I wondered if I was imagining it. She was my daughter, for Christ's sake. She'd called me "Daddy" a million times growing up--crayon drawings, scraped knees, late-night talks when Bridget was too checked out to care. But this didn't feel like that. This felt like she was testing something, poking at a line I didn't even know was there. My mind scrambled. Maybe it was the shorts, the way they rode up her thighs when she shifted, or the casual intimacy of her sitting so close, her bare skin inches from me. Maybe I was just tired, reading too much into a kid who'd always been a little wild.

"You're not a burden," I said finally, tossing the towel on the counter, forcing my voice steady. "You're my girl. Always will be."

Her smile widened, and she slid off the counter, landing light on her feet. "Always, huh? Careful, Daddy, I might hold you to that." She brushed past me on her way to the fridge, her shoulder grazing my arm, and I caught that coconut scent again, sharper this time. She didn't look back, just grabbed a soda and popped it open, but I stood there, rooted, my hands flexing at my sides.

I watched her walk out, hips swaying just enough to make me question it, and my chest felt tight like I'd caught a glimpse of something I wasn't supposed to see. She was flirting, wasn't she? No, that was insane. She was 18, fresh off her birthday, probably just high on her own freedom, messing with me the way she messed with everyone. I was her father. She didn't mean it like that. I was seeing things, projecting some stupid, exhausted fantasy onto a moment that wasn't there.

But as I turned off the kitchen light later, the house dark and Bridget still not home, I couldn't shake the way her voice had curled around "Daddy," the weight of her eyes on me. It stuck, nagging at the back of my mind, and I hated how it made me feel: unsettled, guilty, and, God help me, a little curious.

--

It was Thursday, a couple of days after that night in the kitchen, and the air in the house felt thicker somehow, like the tension I'd brushed off had settled in, quiet but persistent. Bridget was home for once, but she'd shut herself in the office upstairs, claiming a backlog of emails. I didn't buy it fully. She'd been cagey lately, but I wasn't ready to dig into that. Work had me beat anyway; I was sprawled on the couch, half-watching some mindless cop show, trying to unwind. Lexie had been out earlier, something about meeting friends, but she'd rolled in around nine, all restless energy and that same sharp edge I couldn't unsee now.

I heard her before I saw her: bare feet padding down the hall, then the creak of the floor as she stopped in the doorway. "Hey, Daddy," she said, and there it was again, that drawn-out lilt that made my jaw tighten. I glanced up, and she was leaning against the frame, one hip jutted out, wearing this thin little cami and those damn shorts again. Her hair was loose, a mess of waves, and she had this half-smile, like she knew something I didn't.

"Hey, kid," I said, keeping my tone neutral, my eyes flicking back to the TV. "Good night out?"

She shrugged, sauntering over to flop onto the couch beside me closer than she needed to, her thigh brushing mine as she tucked her legs up.

"Eh, it was fine. Boring crowd. I'd rather hang with you anyway." Her voice was casual, but there was a warmth to it, a little too much, and she stretched her arms above her head, the hem of her shirt riding up to show a sliver of her stomach.

I swallowed, shifted my weight to put an inch between us. "Yeah? What's so exciting about an old guy and reruns?" I tried for a laugh, something to cut the weird hum in my chest, but it came out rough.

She turned her head, resting her cheek on the cushion, looking at me through her lashes. "You're not that old, Daddy. And you're way more fun than you think." Her lips twitched, and she reached out, poking my arm with one finger, letting it linger there a beat too long before pulling back. "Besides, I like how you look at me when I'm around. Makes me feel...special."

My breath caught, and I masked it with a cough, sitting up straighter. "I always look at you, Lexie. You're my daughter." The words felt like a shield, something to hold up against whatever the hell was happening. But her eyes narrowed slightly, playful, like she'd caught me dodging.

"Sure," she said, drawing out the word. "But it's different lately, isn't it? I can tell." She shifted, tucking one leg under her, and her knee pressed against my thigh. Deliberate this time, no mistaking it. "Don't worry, I won't tell Mom you've got a favorite."

She giggled, light and teasing, but it hit me like a punch. My mind raced. Different how? What did she see? I'd been careful, hadn't I? Just watching her a little longer lately, noticing the way she moved, the way she'd started filling out those clothes. Normal dad stuff, I told myself. Pride, not...whatever this was twisting into. But her words, that knee, the way she was looking at me now, all soft and sly. It was bolder than Tuesday, a step past testing. She was pushing, and I wasn't sure how to push back without admitting I'd noticed.

"Bridget wouldn't care either way," I muttered, aiming for dismissive, but my voice was too tight. I grabbed the remote, turned the volume up a notch. "You're imagining things, kid. Too much time on your hands."

Lexie laughed again, low and throaty, and leaned in just enough that her shoulder nudged mine. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just bad at hiding it." She didn't move away, just stayed there, her heat seeping into me, her coconut scent filling the space. "Night, Daddy," she said after a moment, hopping up with that same sway in her hips as she headed for the stairs. She glanced back once, smirking, and then she was gone.

I sat there, staring at the screen, the cop show a blur. My hands gripped the remote too hard, and my pulse wouldn't settle. She was flirting,fuck, she was, wasn't she? Not just some teenage sass, but something intentional, something that made my skin prickle and my stomach turn. I told myself I was crazy, that she was just messing with me, bored and reckless like always. But that look, that touch. It stuck, gnawing at me, and I hated how it left me reeling, torn between shutting it down and wondering what she'd do next.

--

It was Saturday afternoon, a few days after that couch moment that still rattled around in my head. The house was quiet. Bridget had left early for some weekend seminar, or so she'd said, and I didn't ask questions. I was in the garage, messing with an old toolbox I'd been meaning to sort, trying to keep my hands busy and my mind off the way Lexie's voice kept echoing in my ears. She'd been out running errands, but I heard the front door slam, then her footsteps heading my way.

"Daddy, you in here?" she called, her tone bright but edged with that familiar tease. She appeared in the doorway, backlit by the sun, wearing a sundress this time--short, flimsy, the kind that clung when she moved. Her hair was up in a messy bun, a few strands loose around her face, and she had this grin that made my gut twist.

"Yeah, just tinkering," I said, wiping my hands on a rag, keeping my eyes on the toolbox. "What's up?"

She didn't answer right away, just wandered in, her sandals clicking on the concrete. "Bored," she said, dragging the word out. She stopped beside me, too close, peering over my shoulder at the scattered sockets and wrenches. "You're so handy. Bet you could fix anything."

I grunted, half a laugh. "Not everything. Some stuff's too broken." I meant it as a joke, but she tilted her head, her lips curving like she'd caught some hidden meaning.

"Not me, though, right? You'd fix me up?" She stepped closer, her hip brushing my arm, and before I could respond, she hopped up onto the workbench, swinging her legs. The dress rode up her thighs, and I looked away fast, focusing on a rusty screwdriver like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"You don't need fixing, Lexie," I said, my voice gruffer than I meant. "You're fine."

She giggled, leaning forward, her hands braced on the edge of the bench. "Fine, huh? That's all I get?" Her tone was playful, but there was that heat again, that push. Then, quick as anything, she slid off the bench and, Jesus, swung a leg over me. I'd been crouched down, sorting bolts, and suddenly she was straddling my lap, her knees pinning me to the floor, her dress bunched up around her hips.

"Lexie, what the hell--" I started, my hands snapping up to her waist to push her off, but they froze there, gripping her instead. She was light, warm, her thighs pressing into me, and I felt it, shit, I felt myself harden, instant and unstoppable. Her eyes flicked down, just for a second, and I knew she knew. She didn't say a word about it, didn't smirk or call it out, but the air between us thickened, heavy with what she wasn't saying.

"Remember when I used to sit on you like this?" she said, her voice softer now, almost nostalgic. "When I was little, watching you fix stuff. You'd let me help." She shifted, just enough to settle her weight, and my breath hitched.

I clenched my jaw, my hands tightening on her hips. "Yeah, well, you're not a little girl anymore. Get off me." My voice came out low, firm, but it shook at the edges. I shoved her gently, firmly enough to mean it, and she slid back, standing up with a little huff, brushing her dress down like nothing happened.

"Fine, Daddy," she said, pouting playfully, but her eyes lingered on me, sharp and knowing. "Didn't mean to cramp your style." She turned, sauntering out, and I stayed there, crouched on the garage floor, my heart hammering.

I leaned my head back against the workbench, cursing under my breath. She'd felt it. I knew she had and I couldn't pretend it away. It was a natural reaction, I told myself, just biology, nothing more. She was 18, gorgeous in that wild way of hers, and I was a guy. Not a saint, not dead. It didn't mean anything. But as I sat there, the ghost of her weight still on me, the way she'd looked down and seen, I felt the guilt creep in anyway: sharp, ugly, and too damn loud to ignore.

I watched her walk away, that sundress swaying with every step, and my chest felt like it was caving in. My hands were still tingling where they'd gripped her hips, and I could feel the heat of her lingering, the way she'd pressed down just enough to make it impossible to ignore. She was almost to the door when something snapped in me--stupid, reckless, like a wire shorting out. "Lexie," I called, my voice rough, louder than I meant. I didn't even know why I did it, not until she stopped and turned, her head tilting with that curious little smile.

"Yeah, Daddy?" she said, and it was too late to back out.

I rubbed a hand over my face, stalling, my brain scrambling for an excuse. "Come here a sec," I muttered, dropping the rag I'd been clutching. She didn't hesitate, just padded back over, her sandals clicking, and stood there, looking down at me still crouched by the workbench. Her eyes had that glint again, like she knew I was floundering.

"Sit back down," I said, nodding toward my lap, and my stomach lurched as the words left my mouth. "Like old times, you know? When you'd watch me fix stuff. Been a while." It sounded lame even to me, a flimsy grab at something innocent, but she didn't call it out. She just grinned, stepping closer, and swung her leg over me again, settling right back where she'd been like it was nothing, like we were play-acting some memory from when she was six and harmless.

Her weight hit me again, warm and soft, and, fuck, there it was, that same rush, my body reacting before I could choke it down. She didn't flinch, didn't say a damn thing, just rested her hands on my shoulders and looked at me, close enough I could see the freckles across her nose. I kept my hands on the floor this time, palms pressed to the cold concrete, trying to anchor myself. "Remember that old bike?" I said, forcing the words out, grasping at the past. "You'd sit right here, handing me tools while I patched the tire."

She nodded, her fingers flexing against my shoulders. "Yeah. You let me tighten the bolts. Said I was your little helper." Her voice was quiet, almost tender, but her thighs shifted just a fraction and I knew she felt me, hard as hell under her. She didn't react, didn't smirk, but her eyes locked on mine, and the silence said everything.

I felt sick, a greasy knot twisting in my gut. This wasn't innocent. I wasn't fooling anyone, least of all myself. She was 18, my daughter, and here I was, letting her sit on me like some twisted game, pretending it was nostalgia when my body was screaming otherwise. It's just a reaction, I told myself again, natural, involuntary, a guy thing. She was pushing buttons she didn't even understand, and I was too tired, too weak to stop it. That's all it was.

But then she leaned in a little, her breath warm against my cheek, and something in my head clicked--sharp, like a switch flipping. I'd fucked up. This wasn't a memory lane bullshit moment; this was a line, and I'd dragged her right back over it. "Alright," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet, rougher than I meant. "Go back inside, Lexie. I need to finish up here."

She blinked, pulling back, and for a second I thought she'd argue. But she just slid off me, slow and deliberate, her hands trailing off my shoulders last. "Sure, Daddy," she said, soft but with that edge I couldn't unhear now. She stood, smoothed her dress, and walked out, leaving me there with my pulse pounding and my hands shaking against the floor.

I stared at the toolbox, the scattered bolts, anything to avoid the truth sitting heavy in my lap. She knew. I knew. And I'd called her back anyway, like some idiot chasing the edge of a cliff. I told myself it was nothing, just a dumb moment, but the sick feeling wouldn't leave: half guilt, half something darker I didn't want to name.

--

It was Tuesday evening, a few days after the garage mess, and I'd convinced myself I'd overreacted. Lexie had been her usual self since. Loud, a little cheeky, nothing I couldn't write off as her just being 18 and restless. Bridget was gone again. Another late night at the office, her excuses thin but unchallenged. I was in the living room, sunk into the armchair with a beer, the TV flickering some game I wasn't really watching. The house was too quiet, and then there she was, padding in like she'd been waiting for the moment.

"Hey, Daddy," she said, her voice soft but carrying that familiar pull. I looked up, and my throat went dry. She was wearing one of my old T-shirts, some faded band tee from college, too big on her, slipping off one shoulder and, Christ, just her panties underneath, pale blue ones I could see peeking out as she moved. She didn't pause, didn't ask--just climbed right into my lap, straddling me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Lexie--" I started, but she cut me off with a little laugh, settling her weight, her hands resting light on my chest.

"Relax, Daddy. Just talking. Like we used to." Her tone was easy, playful, and I let it slide, let my hands hover before settling on the armrests, gripping hard. She was warm, her thighs bare against my jeans, and I felt that rush again--hard, instant, undeniable. I told myself it was fine, just a reflex, nothing intentional. She was my kid, acting out some old habit, and I was just humoring her. Innocent, I repeated in my head, even as my pulse hammered.

She leaned back a little, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my shirt. "Remember when I'd sit like this and tell you about school? All those dumb stories?" She smiled, and it was soft, almost sweet, like she was pulling us both into some safe, blurry past.

"Yeah," I said, my voice tight, forcing myself to play along. "You'd ramble on about art projects or whatever boy pissed you off that week." I tried to focus on her words, on the memory, not the way her hips shifted slightly, not the heat seeping through my jeans. She was getting what she wanted--me stuck here, pretending this was normal, while she pushed just far enough to keep me off balance.

We kept talking, her voice a low hum. She was going off about something about a friend's drama, a trip she wanted to take. I nodded, grunted responses, my mind split between her words and the effort to keep my hands still. She didn't mention it, didn't even glance down, but I knew she felt me--hard as hell under her, no hiding it. Her silence was louder than anything she could've said, and I let it ride, telling myself she didn't mean it like that, that I was the one making it weird.

Then she did it. She tilted her head back, just a little, her eyes drifting shut, a small, satisfied smile curling her lips. It wasn't big, wasn't obvious, but it hit me like a brick. She wasn't just talking. She was enjoying this, she was enjoying sitting there in my lap, in my shirt, her panties barely a barrier, knowing exactly what she was doing to me. My stomach dropped, the sick twist of realization cutting through the haze. This wasn't innocent, not even close, and I'd let it happen again.

"Alright," I said, my voice sharp, cutting through the quiet. "Time for you to go, Lexie. Get off." I grabbed her hips, lifted her just enough to slide her back, my hands shaking as I set her on her feet. She blinked, surprised, but didn't argue. She just stood there, tugging the shirt down a little, that smile fading into something unreadable.