 The mountain air was crisp that evening, carrying the faint metallic tang of ore dust even inside the house. Zofie had come back early from her first solo prospecting run—too early, really. The stars hadn’t even properly come out yet. She dropped her pack by the door with a soft thud, the engraved nameplate on her mining suit catching the lamplight: ZOFIE, in the same proud block letters her father had once had carved for himself.
Handel was at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring a pot of something thick and spiced. He didn’t turn right away. He just said, low and warm, “Thought you’d be gone till dawn, pup.”
“I missed the smell of home,” she answered, quieter than she meant to. She kicked off her boots, padded across the wooden floor in socked feet, and stopped just behind him. Close enough that the heat of his back brushed her chest. “Missed you more.”
He went still. The wooden spoon paused mid-circle.
Zofie pressed her forehead lightly between his shoulder blades. His fur was coarse there, dark and familiar, smelling faintly of pine smoke and the soap he always used. She felt the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
“Zofie,” he said. Not a warning. Not quite a question. Just her name, heavy in his throat.
She slid her arms around his waist from behind, palms flat against the hard plane of his stomach under the worn orange shirt. “You told me once,” she murmured, “that the mines teach you to listen to what’s really there. Not what you wish was there. What actually is.”
Handel set the spoon down. Turned slowly in the circle of her arms until they were face to face. His eyes—deep brown, always so steady—searched hers like he was looking for the child he’d raised and the woman standing in front of him at the same time.
“You’re sure?” he asked. Voice rough. “This isn’t something we come back from.”
“I don’t want to come back from it.”
He exhaled through his nose, a long, shuddering sound. Then one big hand lifted, cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing the soft fur along her cheekbone. The other settled at the small of her back and pulled her in until their bodies met fully—chest to chest, hips to hips.
The first kiss was careful. Almost polite. Lips brushing, testing. Then Zofie made a small, hungry sound in her throat and rose onto her toes, and whatever restraint he’d been clinging to snapped.
He kissed her like a man who’d spent years pretending not to want this. Deep, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against hers with slow, deliberate hunger. She clutched the front of his shirt, fingers twisting in fabric, and he growled low—actually growled—when she nipped his lower lip.
Clothes came off in the kitchen. Shirt first—his, tugged over his head so fast a button popped. Hers followed, green top and bra hitting the floor. Then her skirt, his belt, trousers shoved down just enough. No time for the bedroom; the counter was closer.
He lifted her onto it like she weighed nothing. Her legs parted instinctively, tail curling around his thigh. She was already wet—achingly so—and when his fingers found her, stroking through slick folds, she arched with a sharp gasp.
“Fuck, pup,” he breathed against her throat. “You’re soaked for me.”
“Been wet since I walked in the door,” she panted. “Since I smelled you cooking. Since forever.”
He didn’t tease. Didn’t make her beg. Just lined himself up—thick, hot, the blunt head nudging her entrance—and pushed in one long, steady thrust.
Zofie’s head fell back. A broken moan tore out of her. He was big—bigger than she’d imagined in the dark hours she’d touched herself thinking of him—and the stretch burned sweetly, perfectly. She locked her ankles behind his back, heels digging into the muscle of his ass, urging him deeper.
Handel braced one hand on the counter beside her hip, the other tangled in her braid, tipping her head so he could kiss her again while he started to move. Slow at first—long, dragging strokes that let her feel every inch pulling out and sinking back in—then faster, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the quiet house.
She clawed at his shoulders. “Harder—please—Dad—”
The word made him falter for half a second, cock twitching hard inside her. Then he groaned, raw and wrecked, and fucked her like he’d been starving for it. Deep, punishing thrusts that rocked her whole body on the counter. Her breasts bounced with each impact; he ducked his head and caught a nipple between his teeth, sucking hard enough to make her cry out.
“Say it again,” he rasped against her fur.
“Dad—fuck—Dad, I love you—”
He came first—couldn’t hold back when she said it like that. Hips slamming forward, burying himself to the hilt as he pulsed inside her, hot and thick, flooding her with every spurt. The feeling of him spilling triggered her own release; she clenched down hard around him, shaking, whimpering his name over and over while pleasure ripped through her in bright, blinding waves.
They stayed locked together afterward, breathing hard. His forehead rested against hers. Her tail was still wrapped around his leg like she’d never let go.
Eventually he kissed her temple, soft now. “We’re gonna have to talk about this,” he murmured.
Zofie smiled against his neck. “Later. Tonight I just want to sleep in your bed. Naked. With you still inside me when I wake up.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Greedy little thing.”
“Your greedy little thing,” she corrected, nuzzling under his jaw. “Always have been.”
Handel gathered her close—still joined, still leaking slowly around where they were connected—and carried her toward the stairs.
The stars were finally coming out outside the window.
Neither of them looked.
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