He was the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.
Or a girl like me.
Everything about Mr. Wolfe was sharp and clean his jaw, his suits, the way he never looked at me for too long, as if staring too hard would make something snap.
But I noticed everything.
The way he came home and loosened his tie with one hand. The way he watched his daughter like she was all that kept him grounded. And the way he never let his gaze linger on my bare legs when I wore shorts around the house.
He was trying to be good.
I wasn’t.
Not anymore.
The Shirt
That night, I wore his white shirt on purpose.
The one he left folded on the laundry table, freshly pressed but forgotten.
I should’ve just hung it back up.
Instead, I wore it buttons halfway undone, sleeves rolled, hem ju
