What comes to mind when you think of being eighteen?

Sweating it out on the sports field? Grinding toward your dreams? Or cramming in high school to get into a decent college?

My life was supposed to be ordinary.

Ordinary school days.

Ordinary office jobs.

Ordinary dates with ordinary girls.

Ordinary marriage.

Ordinary kids.

Ordinary death.

That was the life I wanted. The life I believed in.

Just live plainly. That was the plan—

Except right now, in my supposedly solo apartment, a fourteen-year-old middle schooler lives upstairs. If I had to define our relationship? I’m her guardian. Her name sits neatly below mine in the household register. Under "relation to head of household," it clearly states: *adopted daughter*.

Technically, Grandpa’s the head of household. Legally, I couldn’t adopt her myself. But even though she’s registered under him, I’m the one raising her.

She’s my daughter.

And I’m only eighteen.

Her arrival twisted my ordinary life into something... not ordinary. But honestly? I don’t hate it.

How did things end up like this?

...

One year ago.

I trudged home from school, grocery bag in hand.

Key in lock. Door creaking open.

"I’m back," I called from the entryway.

Silence. Normal. I lived alone. My parents died young; I grew up with Grandpa in the countryside. But for better schools, I moved alone to S City after elementary. Dad left this two-story house behind—a comfortable inheritance.

I swapped shoes, dumped groceries on the kitchen counter, then bolted for the bathroom. That urge had been building since the bus ride home.

Both floors had bathrooms. But when I twisted the first-floor knob—

*Click*. Locked.

I frowned, shoved the door. Nothing.

"Stuck again?" The latch jammed often. A minor hassle. Not worth fixing.

Sighing, I backtracked to fetch the spare key.

By the time I jammed it into the lock, my legs were clenched tight. *One more second and this dam bursts.*

The door swung open—

Steam billowed out. Water hissed from the showerhead.

Thin streams cascaded over skin like flawless porcelain.

Beneath the spray stood a girl, slender arms lifting a pink loofah.

My brain froze. Time stopped. Only the shower’s roar filled my ears.

She noticed me. Eyes wide. Lips parted in shock.

Our gazes locked—mutual disbelief.

My eyes drifted downward.

*Impact.*

How could someone so small have... *that*? That’s not just unfair—it’s statistically impossible.

It reminded me of New Year’s dawn on the mountain: a perfect half-sun rising over flat plains. Like that 5:30 AM glow.

Circles are humanity’s purest art. Renaissance sculptures hid them in their curves.

This was art.

So... staring for half a minute was purely aesthetic appreciation. Wholesome. Virtuous, even.

*If you’re dialing 911 right now—hang up. Please.*

"U-uh..." Her lips trembled. Crimson flooded her cheeks. Her whole body shook.

"AAAAH!!!"

A shrill, ear-splitting shriek tore through the steam.

She clapped both hands over her face.

*Seriously?!* Cover your *face* first? Everything else is still on full display!

*Eyes! Control yourselves!* The world’s full of temptations, but don’t sink this low!

I slapped both palms over my own eyes. "S-sorry! I saw nothing!"

*Sounds guilty as hell.* No time to care.

I spun to flee—*thud!*—forehead slamming the doorframe.

*Pain. So much pain.*

Out in the hall, I gasped for air, heart hammering. That image replayed behind my eyelids. My throat went desert-dry.

I pressed a hand to the lump swelling on my forehead. Dizzy.

Then it hit me: *Wait. This is MY house. Why’s a stranger showering here?*

Who is she? Trespassing deserves an apology—or a police report.

Bladder screaming forgotten urgency, my body flashed emergency-level red alert.

*If I don’t pee now, I’m washing my pants tonight.*

First-floor bathroom: occupied.

Second-floor bathroom: salvation.

I tiptoed upstairs like a nervous bride—

—and nearly collided with someone descending.

"G-Grandpa?!"

The man was my guardian. Stern-faced. Near seventy but built like oak. Retired to our village years ago.

Harvest season was now. He’d never abandon his fields to visit S City.

His usual warmth was gone. Exhaustion lined his face. "Came for... business."

"You could’ve called."

"Phone’s tricky. I had my key."

"Grandpa, wait in the living room. I’ll be right down—"

No time. Bladder at DEFCON 1.

I darted past him before he could reply, sprinting for the upstairs toilet.