Nele's embarrassing mishaps

Oops, it happened again. Somehow, it must be my fault. A chat turned into a story. Or rather, the idea for a story. It started a few days ago. Like this:

HIM: Have you ever thought about writing a story that fits your name, between a daughter (you) and your stepfather? I know you started something similar earlier, but I'm thinking more along the lines of something romantic and playful, after the mother dies and you fall in love with your stepfather.

ME: Hm? Nah, romantic isn't my thing. I prefer being cheeky.

HIM: Cheeky then... you seduce him.
You run around half naked, leave the door open while you're in the shower...
Additionally, I might include the father's point of view.

ME: Somehow I feel like this story has been told many times before. Right?

HIM: Yes, but I think you're making something special out of it. Because you're rephrasing the explicit parts and framing it very nicely. But maybe you're right.

12 hours later:

ME: Maybe I have an idea for the stepdaughter/father story. But not run-of-the-mill.

Another 12 hours later:

ME: I'd like to use part of this chat as an introduction. So, your suggestion to write something about me, my initial refusal, and then my eventual agreement. Anonymous, of course. Would that be okay with you?

HIM: You're welcome to write the introduction like that.

Without Mom, the house felt so empty. Too big. Too quiet. To be honest, I liked it that way. I enjoyed being alone with my stepfather.

No one asked me why I was dressed like that or reminded me that I wasn't a child anymore.

Which would have been obvious if you looked at me: a frilly blouse with puff sleeves and a short skirt with cake layers. Don't know what that is? I like it. Even the name sounds like a wonderfully playful, multi-layered garment – almost like a dessert you can wear. Imagine a skirt made of several layers of tulle – similar to a layer cake. The layers are slightly gathered to create volume and resemble cream or sponge cake. Add a cheeky bow as decoration, like on a pastry – cute, playful, and a real eye-catcher.

I had braided my long blonde hair into side-styled pigtails. Cute, flirty, deliberately a bit silly. I had also put on more makeup than usual, with bold colors around my eyes, on my cheeks, and of course on my lips. Mom would have sent me back to my room without hesitation, saying, “Nele, you're over 18 now, so dress like an adult.”

I looked a little like a doll. If you want to get an idea, check out my profile picture on CHYOA. :-)

I liked it when people underestimated me when I looked so playful. Especially him.

David was already in the kitchen when I came downstairs. As usual, he was reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee in his hand, his glasses perched on his nose, like an introverted professor. I tiptoed in barefoot, making sure he heard my little feet pattering on the floor.

He looked up and smiled—politely, distantly—and then turned his attention back to his reading. Ugh. He was so reserved. Always so controlled. I never knew if he noticed me. I mean, really looked at me. He had to see that my blouse was slightly open. One of the buttons just wouldn't stay closed.

Right above my breasts. Stupid button! But maybe it wasn't entirely accidental.

“Good morning,” I chirped, pretending to yawn.

“Good morning,” he said, completely normal. Calm.

I felt my cheeks flush. Not because of what he had done—he was acting completely appropriate—but that was exactly the problem, wasn't it? It was what he wasn't doing. I felt like I was the only one who wanted to play. An adult game. I already knew the rules. And because it wasn't fun to always follow the rules, I decided to bend them a little. I walked past him to the kettle, casually tugging at my skirt to show a little more leg. Had he noticed how short it was? If so, he didn't show it.

My fingers fumbled as I reached for a cup in the tall cupboard. I tried to look casual.

And then – clang!

The cup slipped out of my fingers and shattered on the tile floor. I froze.

David stood up immediately. I bent down to pick up the shards, visibly confused, and muttered something useless. My skirt rode up at the back—I felt the air on my thighs—and something slipped forward in my blouse. I knew what I looked like, and for a moment I considered fixing it. But I didn't.

He didn't even look at me, he had already turned toward the broom closet. “Be careful. Don't cut yourself on the chips,” he said in his usual calm voice. He brought the broom and dustpan and pressed them into my hands.

Of course he did.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I swept up the broken pieces. My heart was beating way too fast for what had just happened. I felt hot. His reaction, on the other hand, seemed cool. No awkward silence. No nervous blinking. No weird smile when he thought I was looking at him. Just this calm decency that made me want to scream.

Was he really that clueless?

Or hadn't I been clear enough?