Page 9 of Daddy's Girl

He's outside splitting logs like they insulted his mother.

Each swing of the axe lands with a satisfying thud that rattles the floorboards under my bare feet. I can feel it in my teeth, and in my core where he hasn't even touched me yet—but somehow, my body already recognizes him.

Jack Boone is six and a half feet of raw, mountain-wild dominance. Twenty years my senior. My father's best friend, who probably remembers me in pigtails from pictures. The kind of man whose hands could span my waist entirely, who could break me or save me with equal ease. The kind of man you don't walk away from.

The kind you run from—if you're smart.

But I'm curled on the edge of his couch, barefoot, wrapped in one of his flannels that smells like him—like the man who shouldn't want me but who looked at me earlier with hunger that made me forget he's old enough to have raised me. I'm pretending I'm not watching the way his back flexes, how sweat rolls down the line of his spine. How each movement broadcasts strength that makes something primitive in me want to call him names I've never called anyone before.

I’m so freakin’ tired I could fall asleep sitting up, but instead, I'm eyeing his laptop sitting on the coffee table between us, its silver edge gleaming in the firelight. It’s modern sleekness a contrast to the sort of homestead primitiveness that seems to embrace the rest of the space.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I slide the computer onto my lap and open it like a trespasser.

His password is taped to the bottom—a string of numbers and letters I type in with guilty fingers. The desktop appears, sparse and organized like everything else in his life.

My stomach is knotting as I open the browser, type in my Instagram login. My fingers shake.

I haven't posted since the funeral. Haven't touched socials since the last fight I had with my ex when he smashed my phone, and I was too scared to go back to my little rented room above the donut shop on the outskirts of Flint for longer than the few minutes it took to grab a few of my favorite rocks, a change of clothes and the Hello, Kitty make-up bag that contained three hundred dollars and my favorite mascara and lip gloss.

I do miss the free donuts they’d give me every afternoon when they closed up, and waking to the smell of frying sweet dough, but the second I log in to my IG, those sweet memories fade.

DMs. Notifications. Screenshots.

Him.

My ex, the reason I came here in the first place. The reason I ran.

I stare at the messages on the screen, sourness turning in my stomach.

David—the young medical intern with dimples, the one who brought hot chocolate during Dad’s overnight stays. He seemed sweet at first. Familiar. He won me over enough to share a few meals in the hospital cafeteria.

Then came the dinner invitation, a week after Dad passed. I was searching for something, and he felt like a connection to what I'd just lost.

Calm and comforting in scrubs one moment, eyes cold and distant the next. The hospital staff adored him, but it didn’t take long for the possessiveness to show.

The putt-putt dates and movie nights squeezed into his busy schedule gave way to: ‘Where are you?’and ‘My patience isn’t infinite.’

It wasn’t just the Jekyll-and-Hyde routine or the sharp, cutting words—"You’re lucky I show any interest. I might be just an intern now, but in a few years, I’ll be head of oncology. And what will you have? Nothing and no one."

Then worse."I’ll find you wherever you go."

And the bruises. His “gentle” touch turning hard in an instant. Finger-shaped marks on my wrists I learned to hide under bracelets and long sleeves.

His name is everywhere on my screen. Messages. Voice memos I'd saved—evidence of his rage, his threats, the side of himself he never showed at the hospital. Evidence that could end his medical career if anyone else heard them. The real reason he's desperate to find me. I changed my passwords before I left, locked him out of the accounts he once controlled. His perfect future depends on making sure I never share what I know.

A man who could charm an entire hospital but couldn't handle being told "not yet” or God forbid, “no”. A man whose rage I still feel crawling on my skin even here, miles away, on a mountain where he can't reach me.

I snap the laptop shut and return it to the coffee table, drawing my knees to my chest as I hear the cabin door open. Mountain air rushes in, carrying Jack’s scent—cedar, sweat, man.

He enters, shirt abandoned somewhere, skin glistening, chest heaving. His gaze lands on me first thing, sharper than it should be for someone who's been mindlessly chopping wood.

"You okay?" His voice is rough gravel over velvet. "You don’t look right."

I shake my head, forcing a smile that feels brittle. "Just tired."

He studies me, thick brows drawing tight, not believing me but not pushing. Then he nods, that silent acknowledgment feeling more intimate than words. I watch as he moves to the kitchen sink, his shoulders nearly spanning the width of the doorframe. The cabinet handles hit him at mid-thigh—they'd reach my hip bone. When he turns on the faucet, his hand engulfs the entire fixture.

There's something almost comical about watching him navigate a space clearly built for normal-sized humans—except there's nothing funny about the way my body responds to all that excess. In New York, he'd count as a fire hazard in any apartment under 1,000 square feet.

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