Rick checks the camping supplies in the garage one last time, mentally ticking off each item on his list. The father-daughter camping trip with Celeste has been planned for months, ever since his wife suggested it would be good for their relationship.

He never expected to be alone with his twenty-year-old daughter for three whole days, but with her mother away visiting her sister, the timing worked out this way. He hears the side door open and turns to see Celeste stepping into the garage, her long legs barely covered by cut-off denim shorts so short they might as well be underwear.

"Morning, Dad," Celeste says with a bright smile. She reaches up to tie her long blonde hair into a ponytail, causing her thin white t-shirt to ride up and expose her toned midriff. "Need any help packing?"

Rick clears his throat and returns his attention to the camping gear. "I think I've got most of it covered. Just double-checking we have everything."

He can't help but notice how different Celeste looks today. When did his daughter start dressing like this? He's always seen her as the awkward teenager, not this confident young woman with curves in all the right places.

"Great! I'm so excited for this trip." Celeste steps closer, the scent of her perfume—something floral and sweet—filling his nostrils. "It's been forever since we've spent any real time together."

Rick nods, trying to focus on the task at hand. "Yes, I agree," he says, forcing a smile. He packs the last of the dehydrated meals into the oversized blue cooler, shutting it with a satisfying smack. "Did you double-check your bag?"

Celeste nods, the motion making her golden ponytail swing. "I even packed the first aid kit this time." She flashes a grin, and for a moment, Rick can't tell if the glint in her eye is youthful excitement or something more practiced. She looks away before he can figure it out.

They load the car in a comfortable silence, though Rick finds himself acutely aware of every time Celeste bends over or stretches to lift something heavy.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" he thinks. "She's my daughter, for Christ's sake."

Once everything is packed, they set off for the three-hour drive to the campsite. Celeste sits close to the middle of the bench seat, her bare thigh occasionally brushing against him as he shifts gears. Each touch sends an uncomfortable jolt through his body that he tries desperately to ignore.

"I'm really glad Mom signed us up for this trip," Celeste says, looking out the window as the city gives way to the countryside. "You've been so busy with work lately, we barely see each other anymore."

"The construction business gets crazy this time of year," Rick replies, keeping his eyes firmly on the road. "But it's good to take a break sometimes."

"Especially when we get to spend it together, just the two of us." Celeste shifts in her seat, turning toward him. "Remember when you used to take me for ice cream every weekend."

Rick smiles at the memory. "You were just fifteen then. Always ordered the same thing—chocolate chip cookie dough with extra sprinkles."

"And you always pretended you didn't want any, then ended up eating half of mine," Celeste laughs, placing her hand on his arm. Her touch lingers longer than necessary.

"Well, you never could finish those giant sundaes," he says, acutely aware of her fingers on his skin.

The rest of the drive passes with Celeste sharing stories from college and asking questions about Rick's youth. It feels normal, comfortable even, until she stretches and her shirt rides up, revealing the lower curve of her breasts, and Rick nearly swerves into the next lane.

"You okay?" Celeste asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, just thought I saw a deer," he lies, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

They arrive at the campsite by mid-afternoon. The area is fairly busy with other campers, many of them families with children. Rick notices a few other father-daughter pairs setting up tents nearby—probably part of the same ‘Father-Daughter Wilderness Weekend’.

As Rick unloads the gear, Celeste helps by unfolding the tent. She's tied her shirt in a knot at her waist now, exposing even more skin. The other fathers at nearby campsites keep glancing in their direction, and Rick feels a strange mix of pride and possessiveness that he immediately tries to suppress.

"So where should we set up?" Celeste asks, standing close to him, her hip bumping against his.

"There's a good spot over by those trees," Rick points out, moving away slightly. "It'll give us some privacy but still keep us close enough to the facilities."

They work together to set up the tent, with Celeste following Rick's instructions. As he hammers in the stakes, she watches him, her eyes tracking the movement of his muscles under his t-shirt.

"You're still really strong," she comments. "Most of the guys I date don't even know how to change a tire."

Rick frowns at the mention of Celeste dating. It shouldn't bother him, but somehow it does. "Well, maybe you should date better guys," he mutters.

Once the tent is set up, Rick unrolls his sleeping bag inside and then says, “Hand me yours," and holds out his hand.

Celeste, with a puzzled look on her face, says, “Hmm, I can’t seem to find it, Dad?”

A flush creeps up Rick’s neck. He’s certain he packed two sleeping bags—he remembers rolling them up together in the garage, one blue and one lime green. He even made a mental note that Celeste would complain about the color, just like she did every time she borrowed the green one for a sleepover.

“You sure?” he asks, voice tight.

Celeste peers into the trunk, then ruffles through her duffel, the motion making her shorts ride even higher.

“I swear, it’s not here.” She looks up, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to share yours.”

For a moment, Rick is speechless, his mind scrambling to compute the implications. His bag is barely wide enough for one person, let alone two bodies crammed into it. He sighs, but there's no real annoyance in it. “You’re not twelve anymore, Celeste.”

“No, I’m not,” she says, her gaze cool and unblinking. “But what else could we do about it?”

A reasonable question, and one Rick can’t answer without either caving to her or suggesting she sleep on the ground, which even he knows is a nonstarter.

"I guess we’ll have to make it work," he says, trying for a fatherly gruffness that only half-lands.

Celeste bounces on her toes, pleased. "Perfect. You’ll just have to keep me warm," she says, and gives him a little wink.

Rick swallows, feeling the burn of embarrassment—and something more dangerous—spreading through his chest. He avoids her gaze, suddenly engrossed in the task of prepping their site. He unpacks the propane stove, arranges the plastic utensils, and checks the water jugs, all with mechanical focus. If he keeps busy, maybe his brain will stop echoing that wink —the memory of her hip brushing against his, the shape of her body under the bright sunlight.

But Celeste seems intent on making herself impossible to ignore. She chatters as she organizes their stuff, sharing snippets of college gossip and anecdotes about her friends. Her tone is light, but every so often, a suggestive joke slips in—just subtle enough to be deniable, but pointed enough to make Rick's face heat up.

As evening approaches, the temperature drops noticeably. Celeste shivers dramatically as they sit by their small campfire.

"I'm telling you it is cold," she says, scooting her camp chair closer to his. "Good thing we'll be sharing that sleeping bag. I would freeze to death otherwise."

Rick stares into the fire, watching the flames dance. The thought of spending the night pressed against Celeste's body fills him with dread and something else he refuses to acknowledge.

"Dad?" Celeste's voice breaks through his thoughts. "You're not still worried about sharing the sleeping bag, are you?"

"It's just..." he begins, then stops, unsure how to express his concerns without making things awkward.

"Just what?" Celeste presses, leaning forward. The firelight casts a warm glow on her face, making her look even more beautiful. "I'm not a little girl anymore, you know. We're both adults. There's nothing wrong with sharing body heat with your daughter, you know."

Rick nods slowly, knowing he's fighting a losing battle. "You're right. It's just camping. We'll make it work."

Celeste smiles triumphantly, and as a cool breeze makes the fire flicker, she wraps her arms around herself, her nipples visibly hardening beneath her thin shirt.

Rick delays going to bed as long as possible, busying himself with unnecessary tasks around the campsite while Celeste changes into her pajamas inside the tent. The temperature has dropped well below what the forecast predicted, and his breath forms small clouds in the night air. He can hear Celeste shifting around inside the tent, the sound of fabric rustling as she presumably gets comfortable in his sleeping bag—their sleeping bag now. The thought sends a confusing mix of anxiety and anticipation through his body.

"Dad?" Celeste calls from inside the tent. "Are you coming to bed? It's freezing in here all by myself."

"Just making sure the fire's completely out," he responds, even though he extinguished it twenty minutes ago. With a deep breath, he finally unzips the tent and crawls inside.

The space is cramped, illuminated only by the small battery-powered lantern hanging from the center pole. Celeste lies in the sleeping bag, her blonde hair spread across his pillow. She's wearing a thin tank top that clings to her curves, and Rick forces himself to look away as he removes his boots and jacket.

"Do you want me to turn around while you change?" Celeste asks, though she makes no move to do so, her eyes watching him in the dim light.

"I'll just sleep in my t-shirt and boxers," Rick mutters, quickly removing his jeans and socks. The cold air bites at his bare legs as he hesitates beside the sleeping bag.

Celeste pulls back the top layer, revealing the limited space inside. "Holly shit, Dad, hurry up, I'm getting colder by the second."

Rick slides in awkwardly, trying to keep as much distance as possible between them, which proves nearly impossible in the confined space.

Immediately, Celeste moves closer, her body pressing against his side.

"OH yes," she says, her breath warm against his neck. "Much warmer already."

"Mmm," Rick responds noncommittally, lying rigid on his back. He reaches up to turn off the lantern, plunging the tent into darkness.

For several minutes, they lie in silence. Rick stares up at the tent ceiling, hyperaware of every point where Celeste's body touches his—her shoulder against his arm, her hip occasionally brushing his thigh. He tries to focus on anything else—work projects, bills to pay, baseball statistics—anything to distract from her proximity.

Then Celeste shifts, turning onto her side to face him—her knee bumps against his leg, and her hand lands on his chest.

"Sorry," she whispers, though she doesn't move her hand away. "Not much room in here."

"It's fine," Rick says tightly, his heart pounding beneath her palm. "Try to get some sleep."

"I'm trying, but I'm still cold," Celeste murmurs, inching closer. Her breasts press against his arm, and Rick feels his body responding despite his best efforts. "Do you mind if I get a little closer? Just for warmth?" she asks.

Before he can answer, she's snuggled against him, her head resting on his shoulder, one leg draping over his. Rick freezes, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

"This is wrong. This is my daughter," he thinks. But his body doesn't seem to care about that distinction as blood rushes to his groin.

"That's better," Celeste sighs contentedly, her fingers lightly stroking his chest through his t-shirt. "Goodnight, Dad."

"Goodnight," he manages to say, knowing sleep will be nearly impossible now.

Throughout the night, Celeste continues to "accidentally" touch him—her hand sliding across his stomach, her thigh pressing between his legs, her lips brushing against his neck as she shifts in her sleep. Each touch sends electric currents through his body, and Rick lies awake for hours, caught between desire and shame.

As dawn breaks, Rick jolts awake, a throbbing erection painfully strained against Celeste's inner thigh, her leg draped possessively over his hip.

She's still asleep, her face snuggled into his shoulder while her firm breasts are crushed into his chest.

His body is rigid with horror and need, every muscle locked, as if by holding perfectly still he might contain the queue of forbidden thoughts stampeding behind his eyes.

Celeste breathes quietly, eyelids fluttering with the last shadows of sleep, her pink lips parted. She mumbles something—Rick can’t make it out—and presses her pelvis forward, grinding unconsciously against his morning wood.

He flinches, but her grip around his waist tightens. The sleeping bag’s confined space amplifies her body heat and the faint, summery scent of her skin.

Rick tries to ease himself away, but Celeste only makes a slight, kittenish sound and burrows closer, now fully pinning his erection between their bodies.

He closes his eyes and counts silently backward from one hundred. It doesn’t help. He’s so hard it actually aches.

The sexual tension is too much for him, and something snaps inside. His hand seizes Celeste's ass as he yanks her against him. He thrusts savagely, grinding his rigid cock against his daughter's mound, feeling the heat radiating between her legs.

"Mmm… Oh, Ricky. Fuck…" The sound of his name on her lips slices through him like a serrated knife—her voice—husky, wanting—brands itself into his brain.

He freezes mid-thrust, his cock throbbing painfully against her heat. Sweat beads on his forehead as nausea and desire war inside him. His heart hammers so violently he fears it might crack his ribs.

"No," he thinks, bile rising in his throat. "She can't be dreaming about me. She can't."

He tears himself away, stumbling from the tent with his erection still straining against his boxers. In the cold pre-dawn, he falls to his knees behind a pine tree, retching even as his traitor body continues to pulse with need.

“Get a grip, she’s your daughter,” he scolds himself, but the words are soupy and hollow.

He covers his face with trembling hands. For a moment, the silvered hush of the forest is total: only the wind and the distant peal of a woodpecker, the wet sound of his own breathing. He waits for the wave of disgust to recede before returning to the tent.

Celeste is awake, sitting cross-legged atop the sleeping bag, the tank top twisted askew, and her nipples visibly hard. She’s flipped her phone over, pretending to scroll through yesterday’s photos, but her eyes track him the moment he enters.

“You’re up early,” she says, voice hoarse and thick with sleep.

Rick wipes the cold sweat from his brow and kneels by the camping stove. “Yeah, I have to use the bathroom,” he mutters. He busies his hands with coffee grounds and water, but his peripheral vision won’t let go of her: the way she hugs her knees to her chest, the smooth expanse of thigh, the twitch of her mouth, the way her tongue flicks across her lip as if tasting the memory of their shared heat.

He tries to concentrate on the hiss and pop of the little blue flame, but Celeste’s gaze is a thumb pressed against the wound in his self-control. He’s not sure if she was aware of what happened, if she even knows how hard he was grinding into her, but the curve of her smile suggests that she might know much more than she’s letting on.

“You’re tossing and turning all night,” Celeste murmurs, watching his hands. “You didn’t get much sleep, did you?”

He grunts. “You kept elbowing me. I’m surprised I have any ribs left.”

She laughs, a bright, throaty sound that vibrates in his chest. “You’re such a drama queen.”

She unzips the tent door and crawls out, her hips swaying in those too-short shorts, and Rick’s eyes follow her without permission.

The rest of the day passes with hiking and fishing, normal father-daughter activities that help Rick regain his composure.

Celeste acts completely normal, making no mention of their close sleeping arrangements and even offering to take the hardest, rockiest side of the trail so her "old man" doesn't twist an ankle.

All the while, Rick tries not to notice how she takes off her tank mid-hike, claiming it’s too hot, leaving nothing but a straining sports bra and sweat-slicked skin. He tries not to notice the way she bends over to retie her shoes, ass high and taut, shorts creeping up like they're running away from her hips.

By mid-afternoon, they reach the lookout, a wide, sun-bleached slab of granite that overlooks the valley and a far-off sapphire lake.

Rick pulls two granola bars from his pack, tossing one to Celeste.

She catches it easily, her teeth sinking into the wrapper as she sprawls next to him, legs bare and toes painted a bright red.

“Isn't it crazy how small everything looks from up here?” she says, her voice soft and almost vulnerable for once.

He nods, chest tight as he sits beside her, the world falling away until there is only them, father and daughter, perched together at the edge of the Earth.

By evening, Rick has nearly persuaded himself that last night’s dangerous closeness was a singular event that would never be repeated.

But as the darkness swallows the campsite, and Rick finds himself once again confined in the nylon prison with Celeste, their bodies separated by nothing but the thin fabric of the shared sleeping bag.

Celeste, this time, doesn't wait for the pretense of getting warm. As soon as the light is off, she curls against him, her hand boldly resting on his stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers.

“Today was fun,” she whispers. “I love being out here with you. Like this. Alone in the wilderness. Just the two of us.”

“Yeah, it was a good day,” Rick replies, his voice strained as her fingers trace small circles on his abdomen.

“Remember when you taught me how to fish when I was sixteen?” Celeste asks, her voice soft in the darkness. “You stood behind me and showed me how to cast the line.”

Rick remembers. But it...