David's POV

He heard her before he saw her—bare feet on cold tiles, the soft patter of someone pretending not to be noticed, yet wanting exactly the opposite. David folded the newspaper carefully in half, without finishing the last paragraph. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

When she came in, he looked up, more out of reflex than interest. Braids. Short skirt. That blouse again.

He said “Good morning” in the same tone he would use for a neighbor passing by.

Nele was eighteen—he repeated it in his mind like a prayer, though he wasn't quite sure why he needed to repeat it. Eighteen, with the figure of an adult woman and the wardrobe of a little girl. And that nervous hyperactivity that made her seem both brave and shy. She stood next to the kettle, her small hands uncertain, her movements exaggeratedly dramatic. A button above her breasts was open. He noticed it. Of course he noticed it. He had eyes.

He deliberately looked away.

David had known her since she was ten, back when she wore mismatched socks and sang Taylor Swift way too loudly through the walls of her bedroom when he stayed over at her mother's house before they got married. Then, over the years, Nele changed—she blossomed on the outside and opened up on the inside—it was impossible to miss. It had worried him ever since her mother had asked him if he found her pretty. Careful, trick question! He had preferred to remain silent. And then: “She's just teasing a little. Nothing serious. You know how girls are at that age.”

No, he didn't know that.

The clatter of the cup shattering on the floor made him flinch. Nele had already bent forward before he could jump up and run to her – her skirt rode up. He stopped instantly. A quick glance at her slender thighs, a flash of the snow-white panties she was wearing underneath. Her blouse. A gentle movement under the cotton fabric, then it opened a little wider because Nele leaned forward so far.

She didn't seem to notice.

He did. He turned away hastily.

“Be careful,” he said in a calm voice. He grabbed the broom to have something to hold onto when he approached her.

Behind him, he felt her gaze like a weight on his shoulders. It wasn't his fault, he told himself. And yet he felt ashamed. She was his daughter, albeit only through marriage to her mother, but still...

And he asked himself: Was it really an accident?