The water stopped with a final gasp, the last of it dripping from the showerhead in a hollow patter against the tile. Jack stood there a moment, letting the steam curl around his shoulders, the heat soaking into muscles that had spent the day hauling timber through the cold. His hands ached—a deep, bone-tired throb from the saw, from the chains, from the endless pull and drag of a job that didn't care how old you got.

He ran a hand through his wet hair, dark strands slicked back, and reached for the towel hanging on the hook. The fabric was rough against his skin, and he knotted it loosely at his waist, not bothering to do it properly. There was no one here to see. Margaret was somewhere over the Atlantic, her voice still echoing in his head from the call she'd made before boarding—bright, distracted, already thinking about the next flight, the next layover.

The mirror was fogged over, a thick layer of condensation that turned his reflection into a vague silhouette. Broad shoulders. A barrel chest. The scars on his forearms, faded and white against the tan of his skin. He couldn't see any of it clearly, and he didn't try. He just stood there, letting the steam thin, listening to the drip of the showerhead and the hollow quiet of the house.

Quiet. That was the word for it. The house was always quiet when Margaret was gone. Not peaceful—quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed in on you from all sides, that made you notice every creak and groan of the old walls. Jack had never minded it before. He'd built this house with his own hands, timber by timber, and the silence of it had always felt like a reward.

Now it felt like a waiting room.

He shook the thought away and reached for the sink, wiping a clear streak through the fog on the mirror with the flat of his hand. His face looked back at him—weary, lined, the brown of his eyes dulled by a fatigue that had nothing to do with the saw. He stared at himself for a long moment, then looked away.

He heard it then. A creak. Just one, from the hallway floorboard just outside the door—the one that always gave way if you stepped on its edge. Jack's hand froze where it was, halfway to the towel rack. He listened, the steam still curling around him, the drip of the showerhead filling the silence.

Nothing. Just the house settling. Just his imagination, working overtime like it always did when Margaret was gone.

He turned back to the sink and ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the stubble rough against his palm. He should shave. He should get dressed. He should stop standing here like a man waiting for something he didn't want to meet.

The door eased open behind him.

It didn't creak—she knew better than to push it all the way, knew exactly how far it would go before the hinges complained. Jack saw it in the mirror first: the blur of red plaid and bare legs, a flash of honey-brown hair. His heart dropped into his stomach like a stone through ice water.

He turned.

Gina stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame like she owned it. She was wearing his old flannel shirt—the one he'd thought he'd lost, the one he'd searched for weeks before giving up. It hung loose on her, the hem brushing the tops of her bare thighs, the top three buttons undone to show the smooth, pale skin of her chest, the hint of the curve of her breasts. Her long hair fell in waves over her shoulders, still damp at the ends, and her feet were bare on the cold tile.

She looked at him. Honey-brown eyes, wide and innocent, dragging down his chest, over the bare skin of his shoulders, the towel at his waist. A slow smile spread across her full lips.

"Daddy."

The word landed in his gut like a punch. Syrup-sweet, honeyed, drawn out like she was tasting it. Jack felt his jaw clench so hard his teeth ached.

"Get out."

His voice was rough, scraped raw by the steam and the saw and the years of holding a line that kept getting thinner. He meant it. He meant every syllable of it, meant it like a prayer.

Gina didn't move. Her smile only widened, and she pushed off the doorframe, taking a step into the bathroom. Her bare toes curled against the cold tile, and she let out a soft, almost amused hum.

"You always say that." She tilted her head, her hair falling over one shoulder. "You always tell me to get out, and I always stay. You'd think you'd have figured out the pattern by now."

Jack's hands clenched at his sides. "I'm not playing games with you, Gina. Get out of here and let me get dressed."

"Who's playing?" She took another step closer. The steam curled around her, parting around her bare legs, and he caught the faint scent of her perfume—something floral, sweet, too young for this house. It mixed with the soap and hot skin of the bathroom, and he hated how he noticed it. "I'm not playing, Jack. I never play."

His name. Not 'daddy.' Just Jack, low and almost amused, like she was testing the weight of it on her tongue. It was worse, somehow. More intimate. More like she was claiming something she had no right to.

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? It's your name." She stopped a few feet from him, close enough that he could see the pulse beating in her throat, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. "It's not like you're my father. You're my stepfather. There's a difference, isn't there?"

Jack stared at her. The steam hung thick between them, and he could feel the heat of his own skin, the damp of his hair still dripping down his neck. He was standing there in nothing but a towel, and she was wearing his shirt, and the whole thing felt like a trap he couldn't see the edges of.

"You're Margaret's daughter," he said, his voice low. "That makes you family. That makes me responsible for you. And I take that seriously, even if you don't."

"Responsible." Gina repeated the word like it tasted funny. She took another step, and now she was close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the way her lips curved when she smiled. "Is that what you call it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks more like running."

"I'm not running from anything."

"No?" She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the towel at his waist. Just a brush, light as a feather, but Jack flinched like she'd burned him. "You're standing here, steam all around you, not a stitch of clothes on, and the moment I walk in, you tell me to get out. That's not running? That's not you scared of me?"

"I'm not scared of you."

"Then why do you always run?"

Her hand was still on the towel, her fingers resting against the knot. Jack could feel the heat of her skin through the damp fabric, and his whole body went rigid. He should grab her wrist. He should shove her hand away. He should do something other than stand there, frozen, watching her smile.

"Because you don't belong in here," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to. "Because this is my bathroom, and you're not—"

"Not what?" She leaned in, and her voice dropped to a whisper, soft and honeyed and full of something he refused to name. "Not your wife? Is that what you were going to say? Because I know that, Jack. I've always known that. But Margaret's not here, is she?"

Jack's jaw worked. "That doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" She tilted her head, her hair falling over her shoulder, and her eyes never left his. "She's not here. She's never here. She's in the air, or in a hotel, or in some city I can't even pronounce. And you're here. Alone. With me."

"Gina—"

"You think I don't see it?" Her voice was soft, almost gentle, and that was the worst part. "You think I don't see the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching? The way you tense up when I walk into a room? You're not scared of me, Jack. You're scared of yourself."

The words hit him like a physical blow. He took a step back, his shoulder blades hitting the wall behind him, and the towel shifted at his waist. Gina's hand was still on the edge of it, her fingers curled against the knot, and she didn't let go.

"You're wrong," he said, and his voice cracked on the word.

"Am I?" She smiled, slow and knowing. "Then why won't you look at me? Why won't you just stand here and look at me, Jack, and tell me you don't feel anything?"

He couldn't. He couldn't look at her, because if he did, he knew—he knew he'd see the challenge in her eyes, the certainty, the way she was so sure she'd already won. And he couldn't let her win. He couldn't let her be right.

"I'm going to get dressed," he said, and his voice was flat, empty of everything. "And you're going to leave. And when your mother gets back—"

"When my mother gets back, what?" Gina's voice was still soft, but there was an edge to it now, something sharp beneath the honey. "You're going to tell her? You're going to tell her that her daughter walked into the bathroom while you were naked and tried to—"

"Get out."

"—tried to what, Jack?" She stepped closer, and now her body was almost touching his, the flannel shirt brushing against his bare chest. "Tried to talk to you? Tried to be close to you? Tried to—"

He grabbed the door.

His hand shot out, palm flat against the wood, and he shoved it toward the frame, trying to close the space between her and the hallway. But she was faster. Her hand was already on the edge, her fingers wrapping around the wood, holding it open. She didn't push. She didn't have to. She just held it there, steady, her eyes locked on his.

"You can't close the door on me," she said, and her voice was quiet, almost gentle. "You've been trying to close the door on me since the day you married my mother. And I'm still here. I'm always going to be here."

Jack stared at her. The steam was thinning now, curling around them in wisps, and he could see her clearly—the flush on her cheeks, the pulse in her throat, the way her lips parted when she breathed. She was beautiful, and he hated that he could see it, hated that he couldn't unsee it, hated the way his body responded to her closeness despite everything he believed.

"Let go of the door," he said.

"No."

"Gina." His voice was a warning, low and rough. "Let go of the door."

She smiled. It was a small smile, almost sad, and it didn't reach her eyes. "You know what I want, Jack. You've always known. And you can keep running, keep closing doors, keep pretending I'm just a nuisance you have to tolerate. But I'm not going anywhere."

She took a step back, her bare toes curling against the cold tile, and her hand fell away from the door. But she didn't leave. She stood there, in the doorway, the flannel shirt hanging loose on her shoulders, the steam curling around her legs, and she looked at him with those honey-brown eyes like she could see straight through him.

"I'll be in my room," she said, and her voice was soft, almost conversational. "If you change your mind."

She turned, and her bare feet padded down the hallway, and the door swung shut behind her with a soft click.

Jack stood there, his hand still flat against the wood, his heart hammering in his chest. The steam had almost cleared, and the mirror showed him clearly now—a man in a towel, his chest bare, his hair still damp, his eyes hollow with a dread he couldn't name.

The showerhead dripped. Once. Twice.

He closed his eyes, and he could still see her. The flannel shirt. The bare legs. The smile that knew something he didn't want to admit.

He was still dripping, and the towel was still loose at his waist, and the air still smelled like soap and hot skin and the faint, lingering trace of her perfume.

She was in her room. The door was closed. And the quiet of the house pressed in on him from all sides, heavier than it had been before.

Jack opened his eyes and looked at himself in the mirror. The man staring back at him had a jaw set like stone, hands still clenched at his sides, a body braced for a blow that hadn't landed.

Not yet.

He stood there long enough that the steam finished its work and the bathroom went cold. The towel had slipped an inch lower on his hips and he didn't fix it. His reflection stared back at him through the clear streak he'd wiped in the fog, and for once he didn't look away. He looked at the man in the glass and tried to find the one who'd built this house, who'd kissed Margaret goodbye at the door three days ago, who'd promised her he'd look after things while she was gone.

That man wasn't here. That man had been standing in this same spot an hour ago, before the shower, before the creak of the floorboard, before the blur of red plaid in the mirror. Now there was just this—a man with a cold chest and a loose towel and a pulse that hadn't stopped hammering since she'd said his name.

He pushed off the wall and walked to the bedroom. The hallway was empty. Her door was closed at the far end, a thin line of light showing beneath it. He didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on the floorboards, on his own bare feet, on the grain of the wood he'd laid himself, and he made it to the bedroom without letting his gaze drift.

The bedroom smelled like Margaret. Faint, but there—the perfume she kept on the dresser, the lotion she used before bed, the trace of her on the pillows. Jack stood in the middle of the room and breathed it in, letting it settle the part of him that had gone tight. This was his wife's room. His wife's bed. His wife's house, full of her things, her photographs, her daughter asleep down the hall.

He pulled on a pair of jeans, the denim rough and cold against his still-damp skin. A t-shirt, gray and worn soft. He didn't bother with socks. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor.

His hands were still clenched. He flexed them, watching the tendons move under the scarred skin, and tried to remember the last time they'd been loose. At the mill, maybe. When it was just him and the saw and the wood, and the only thing he had to fight was the weight of a log. That was a fight he understood. That was a fight he could win.

This one had no rules. No edges. No way to grip it.

He heard the floorboard creak again.

His head came up. The sound was in the hallway, closer now, just outside the bedroom door. He didn't move. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands flat on his thighs, and watched the crack of light under the door.

The shadow moved across it. Slow. Deliberate. A bare foot, a shape, the hem of a flannel shirt brushing the wood.

Then nothing. The shadow stopped, and he knew she was standing there, on the other side of the door, close enough that if he reached out he could touch the wood between them.

The doorknob turned.

Jack's breath caught. He watched the brass handle rotate a quarter turn, then stop. The door didn't open. She didn't push. She just held it, the way she'd held the bathroom door, and waited.

One second. Two. The quiet of the house stretched between them, thin as wire.

Then the knob turned back, slow and soft, and the shadow moved away. Her bare feet padded down the hall, back toward her room, and the light under her door flicked off.

Jack let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. His hands were shaking. He looked at them, at the tremor in his fingers, and he hated it. He hated how she could do that to him without even touching him. How she could stand on the other side of a door and make his whole body forget how to be still.

He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The dark pressed in around him, and he could hear the house settling, the old walls groaning, the wind picking up outside. Somewhere down the hall, Gina was in her room, and he was here, in his wife's bed, and the distance between them was nothing but a few feet of floorboard and a door he hadn't locked.

He hadn't locked it.

He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and crossed the room. His hand closed on the lock, a small brass toggle, and he turned it. The click was loud in the silence, final as a hammer.

He stood there a moment, hand on the lock, listening. The house was quiet. The wind had died. The only sound was his own breathing, rough and uneven in the dark.

He went back to the bed and lay down. The ceiling was still there, a pale expanse in the dark. He stared at it until his eyes burned, until the edges of his vision went soft, until the weight of the day finally pressed him down into the mattress.

He didn't dream of the saw. He didn't dream of the timber, or the cold, or the endless pull of the chains.

He dreamed of red plaid, and bare feet on cold tile, and a voice that called him daddy like it was a promise he couldn't escape.

He woke with a start, the sheets twisted around his legs, his chest slick with sweat. The room was gray with early light, and for a moment he didn't know where he was. Then he saw the dresser, Margaret's perfume bottle catching the dawn, and it all came back in a rush.

The bathroom. The flannel shirt. The door that wouldn't close.

He sat up, running a hand over his face. His jaw was tight, his shoulders knotted, and there was a heaviness in his chest that felt like it had been there for years, packed in tight around his ribs.

The gray light crept across the ceiling in slow bands, and Jack watched it the way he'd watched the crack under the bedroom door the night before—waiting for something to move through it. His hands lay flat on his thighs, palms up, and he studied the lines in them, the map of cuts and calluses that spelled out every season he'd spent in the timber. None of it told him what to do about a girl in his shirt and a doorknob that turned in the dark.

He stood. The floor was cold under his bare feet, and he welcomed it—something solid, something that didn't ask anything of him. He crossed to the window and looked out at the yard, the sawdust still scattered where he'd been splitting wood before the shower, the axe leaning against the stump with its head buried in a wedge of pine. The morning was quiet, the trees dark against a pale sky, and for a moment he let himself pretend that was all there was. The work. The cold. The clean weight of a blade.

Behind him, the house was still. No creak from the hallway. No shadow under the door. He told himself that meant she was still asleep, that the night had worn her out too, that maybe she'd wake up and remember she was Margaret's daughter and he was Margaret's husband and the whole thing would dissolve into the awkward silence it should have been from the start.

He didn't believe it. But he pulled on his boots anyway, laced them tight, and headed for the kitchen to make coffee.

The hallway was empty. Her door was still closed, the line of light beneath it gone. He kept his eyes on the floorboards as he passed, on the grain of the wood he'd laid with his own hands, and he made it to the kitchen without letting his gaze drift an inch toward the door.

The coffee was already made.

Jack stopped in the doorway. The pot was full, still steaming, and a mug sat on the counter beside it—his mug, the heavy ceramic one with the chip in the rim that Margaret had bought him at a flea market in Fairbanks. He hadn't made it. He hadn't been in the kitchen since yesterday afternoon.

He stood there a long moment, looking at the mug, at the steam rising from the pot, at the faint smear of lip balm on the rim—something pink and glossy that hadn't been there when he'd left the kitchen the night before.

He heard her before he saw her. The soft pad of bare feet on the hallway floor, the rustle of fabric. He didn't turn. He kept his eyes on the mug, on the steam, on the smear of pink, and he waited.

"Morning, Jack."

Her voice was bright, casual, as if the night before had never happened. He turned. She stood in the hallway doorway, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a loose tank top, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. No flannel. No bare thighs. No honeyed drawl. Just a girl in the morning light, looking at him like he was any other man in any other kitchen.

"I made coffee," she said, and she smiled—a small, ordinary smile, the kind she wore when Margaret was home. "Figured you'd need it after last night."

Jack's jaw tightened. "What do you mean, after last night?"

Gina shrugged, crossing to the counter and pouring herself a mug. She didn't look at him. "You seemed tense. All that steam and standing around. I figured you didn't sleep well." She took a sip, her eyes on the window. "Did you?"

He didn't answer. He picked up his mug, the one with the smear of pink on the rim, and he turned it in his hands, looking at the chip, the glaze, the way the light caught the curve of it. He thought about setting it down. He thought about pouring the coffee down the drain. He thought about a dozen things he could do that would draw a line, that would say *no*, that would make it clear that whatever game she was playing, he wasn't going to play it.

He lifted the mug and drank.

The coffee was hot and strong, the way he liked it, the way Margaret never made it because she was always rushing out the door. He set the mug down and looked at Gina, standing there in the morning light in her sweatpants and her loose tank top, looking for all the world like a girl who hadn't spent the night pressing her hand against his bathroom door.

"I'm going to the mill," he said. "I'll be back before dark."

"I know." She smiled, that small ordinary smile, and she raised her mug to her lips. "I'll be here."

He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and shrugged it on, not looking at her, not letting his gaze drift anywhere near the smear of pink on the rim of his mug. He pulled the door open and stepped out into the cold, and the door swung shut behind him with a click that felt, for a moment, like a reprieve.

The mill was three miles down the road, a sprawl of corrugated steel and sawdust that sat at the edge of the tree line like a wound in the green. Jack's truck rumbled over the gravel lot, and he parked in his usual spot, under the big spruce that dropped needles on the hood all year long. He sat there a moment, hands on the wheel, looking at the saw shed, the stacks of timber, the men already moving in the cold with their breath fogging around their faces.

This was the fight he understood. This was the fight he could win.

He got out and walked into the shed, and for the next eight hours he buried himself in the work—the scream of the saw, the weight of the logs, the ache in his arms that spread through his chest and pushed everything else out. He didn't think about the bathroom. He didn't think about the doorknob. He didn't think about the smear of pink on the rim of his mug, or the way Gina had stood in the kitchen light looking like she'd never done a thing wrong in her life.

He thought about the wood. The grain. The cut.

It worked, the way it always worked. The day passed in a blur of sawdust and cold air, and by the time the light started to fade, Jack's hands were raw and his shoulders ached and his mind was empty in a way that felt almost like peace.

He drove home in the dark, the truck's headlights cutting through the trees, and he told himself the night would be different. He'd lock the bedroom door before he even took his boots off. He'd check the hallway before he got in the shower. He'd be ready.

He pulled into the driveway and sat there a moment, looking at the house. The lights were on in the kitchen, a warm glow spilling out onto the porch. He could see a shape moving behind the window—slight, quick, a flash of honey-brown hair.

She was waiting for him.

Jack killed the engine and sat in the silence, his hands on the wheel, his heart a slow, heavy drum in his chest. The porch light flickered on, and the door opened, and Gina stood there in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm light of the kitchen, wearing something thin and pale that clung to her hips.

"You're back," she called, and her voice carried across the yard, bright and easy. "I made dinner."

He got out of the truck. The gravel crunched under his boots, and the cold air hit his face, sharp and clean. He walked toward the house, toward the light, toward the girl in the doorway who was smiling at him like she'd already won.

He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps and looked up at her. The porch light caught the thin fabric of her dress, the curve of her hip, the bare shine of her legs.

"I'm not hungry," he said.

Her smile didn't falter. "You say that a lot." She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, and the fabric shifted with the movement. "You say a lot of things, Jack. Get out. I'm not hungry. I'm not playing games. You'd think by now you'd have figured out the pattern."

He climbed the steps. He didn't stop when he reached the top, didn't pause when he passed her, didn't let his gaze drift anywhere near the thin pale fabric or the bare shine of her legs. He walked into the kitchen and stopped.

The table was set. Two plates, two glasses, a candle burning low in the center. The smell of something warm and savory filled the room, and the light was low, soft, intimate in a way that made his chest go tight.

He stood there, looking at the table, at the candle, at the two plates, and he felt the weight of the day settle back onto his shoulders, heavier than it had been before.

Gina came up behind him. He didn't turn, but he felt her presence at his back, close enough that he could smell her perfume—the same floral scent from the bathroom, the one that had mixed with the soap and the steam and the heat of his own skin.

"Sit down, Jack," she said, and her voice was soft, almost gentle. "Eat something. You've been working all day."

He didn't sit. He stared at the candle, at the flame, at the way it flickered in the draft from the door. He thought about the bedroom door, the lock, the click that had felt so final the night before. He thought about the smear of pink on the rim of his mug, and the way she'd smiled at him in the morning light, and the way she was standing behind him now, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body through his jacket.

"I'm going to bed," he said, and his voice was flat, empty of everything.

He turned and walked past her, down the hallway, past her closed door, past the bathroom with its fogged mirror and its hollow drip. He reached the bedroom door and stepped inside, and he closed the door behind him without looking back.

He stood there a moment, his hand on the lock, and he turned it.

The click was loud in the silence. Final.

He crossed to the bed and lay down, still in his boots, still in his jacket, staring at the ceiling. The dark pressed in around him, and he could hear the house settling, the old walls groaning, the wind picking up outside. Somewhere down the hall, Gina was in the kitchen, standing over a table set for two, a candle burning low.

He closed his eyes, and he saw her. The thin pale fabric. The bare shine of her legs. The smile that knew something he didn't want to admit.

He didn't dream of the saw. He didn't dream of the timber, or the cold, or the endless pull of the chains.

He dreamed of the candle, burning low, and the two plates on the table, and the sound of her bare feet on the hallway floor, coming toward the door.