Page 16 of Played
Silence crashes between us. Heavy and sharp-edged.
He stands slowly, crossing to where I'm standing. His fingers brush my arm—gentle, cautious. The complete opposite of how he touched me twenty minutes ago.
"I just want to protect you."
"I know." I do know. That's the problem. "But I need space, Daniel. I need to breathe. I need to do things on my own sometimes without you hovering."
His hand drops. "Fine."
"Fine?"
"Go alone." His voice flattens. "Handle it yourself."
"Thank you."
"But call me when it's done."
There it is. The concession that isn't really a concession.
"I will."
He nods once, then heads toward the bedroom without another word.
I stand there, still wearing his shirt, wondering why victory feels so hollow.
My father's face flashes behind my eyes—sharp and sudden. A strong and proud South Asian man.
My heart breaks every time I think about those last moments, the way he looked in those final weeks, skin stretched too tight over bone, eyes still kind despite the pain eating him alive.
I was twelve.
He promised he'd be there for my thirteenth birthday. He wasn't.
The memory hits like always—quick and vicious. I press my palm against the cool window glass of our kitchen nook, grounding myself in the present.
Daniel's different from Dad in every way that matters. Dad was soft-spoken, patient. He never raised his voice, never grabbed phones and threw them in aquariums. But the feeling—that desperate need to hold on, to keep someone close before they vanish—that's exactly the same.
I've always gone for older guys. Jenna calls it a pattern. I call it preference, but we both know she's right.
I have daddy issues. I don't deny it.
Daniel takes care of me. Pays my bills. Handles my problems. Steps in when things get messy. He's solid, dependable, andpresent. Everything Dad couldn't be once the cancer got its claws in.
But Dad never made me feel small.
Dad never made my stomach twist with something that isn't quite fear but sits close enough to taste it.
I live in the moment because tomorrow isn't guaranteed—learned that lesson young. Candy for breakfast. Spontaneous road trips. Yes to adventure, no to planning. Dad taught me that accidentally, by dying young.
Daniel hates it. Wants structure. Control. Wants me to be predictable and manageable.
I should leave. The thought whispers through my head at least twice a month now, growing louder each time.
But the idea of being alone again—of losing this safety net, this person who cares (even if the caring feels like a cage)—freezes me solid.
He's never hit me. Never even threatened it.
So why do I flinch sometimes when he moves too fast? Why does my pulse spike when his jaw sets that particular way?
