The house is quiet, too quiet. I can't help but be drawn to the sound of running water. I approach the bathroom, my steps hesitant, my breath ragged. I push the door open, just a crack, and there he is, my dad, his back to me, the water cascading down his body. I feel a rush of guilt, of excitement, of something I can't quite name. I watch, frozen, as he turns, his eyes closed, his hands moving over his body, washing, cleansing, unaware of the secret observer. My heart races, my breath hitches, and I feel a stirring, a forbidden desire that I can't quite suppress.