Page 1 of Daddy Next Door

Chapter 1

Iclickedthemouseforthe last time with a flourish and pushed back from my desk. The logo design was finished, my client would be thrilled, and I was done for the day. My shoulders dropped an inch as I exhaled the tension of perfectionism. Work-Lily was clocking out. Little-Lily could finally come out to play in the safety of my carefully constructed world.

I pressed a button and my standing desk started to lower. I loved standing while working, but now, work was over.

My home office told two stories. On the left: professional, pristine, adult. Dual monitors displayed the graphic design software I'd just closed out. Color-coded folders stood at attention. My desk planner showed neatly checked boxes of completed tasks. Everything had its place, just like I'd been taught growing up.

Always be responsible, Lily. Always be grown-up.

On the right side of the same desk lived another version of me. A fuzzy pink pencil holder cradled my collection of glitter pens. A small plushie bunny named Mr. Hops sat partially hidden behind my monitor—visible only to me, a secret companion during stressful client calls. My special cup with a built-in bendy straw waited for the chocolate milk I'd reward myself with later.

I dimmed the overhead lights and switched on the string of fairy lights that framed my window. The pastel curtains softened the evening glow filtering through. My body knew this transition ritual by heart—the subtle shift from designer-Lily to just-Lily. I closed my work computer and pulled my personal laptop forward, its cover decorated with stickers of stars and moons. My breathing changed. My posture softened. I felt myself getting smaller in the best possible way.

The laptop purred to life. My fingers typed the familiar URL: LittlesOnline.com. The site wasn't flashy or modern, just a simple forum with a pale blue background and friendly, rounded font. But to me, it was salvation. A year ago, after a particularly bad anxiety attack following a client meeting, I'd found this community. People like me, who carried the weight of adulthood but sometimes needed to set it down and be cared for.

I logged in as StarryLittle, my alter ego.

The forum loaded, showing new posts since my last visit. Careanna had posted pictures of her new coloring book pages. DreamDoll was asking about weighted blankets. BabyBlue had written a sweet post about their Daddy surprising them with a picnic. I scrolled through, drinking in the normalcy of it all. These people understood the comfort of stuffed animals at twenty-nine, the joy of cartoon band-aids, the security of having someone set boundaries when the world became too much.

My chest tightened with longing. Most members had caregivers—Daddies or Mommies who nurtured their little sides. I had my online friends, my private space, and my imagination. It wasn't enough anymore.

A thread title caught my eye: "Healthy Boundaries: Building Trust in DDLG Relationships." Posted by ProtectorE. My cursor hovered over it, and I clicked without hesitation.

"Remember that proper boundaries aren't walls—they're windows and doors," he'd written. "They let the right things in while keeping harmful elements out. A good Daddy doesn't restrict freedom; he creates the safe space where freedom can truly exist."

Something warm bloomed in my chest as I read his words. ProtectorE—or just E, as I'd come to think of him—had a way of cutting through confusion with gentle clarity. We'd never shared personal details beyond vague generalities. He was a mental health professional, somewhere in his early forties. I was a creative professional in my late twenties. We both lived alone. That was all either of us knew, but our conversations over the past year had created a friendship that felt more real than most of my in-person relationships.

His responses to various littles in the thread showcased his patience and wisdom. One girl worried her Daddy was too strict about bedtimes. Another felt her little side was being neglected. E addressed each concern with thoughtfulness, never dismissive, always asking deeper questions that made me think.

I clicked on his profile picture—not a real photo, just a simple cartoon of a teddy bear holding a book—and typed a private message.

Hey E! Just wanted to say your boundaries thread is really helpful. I've been thinking a lot about what you wrote last week about the difference between control and care. Hope your day has been good! -Starry

The red dot by his name indicated he was offline. I felt a small pang of disappointment. He was normally online this time of day.

A rumbling outside pulled my attention from the screen. I angled my head toward the window, where the pastel curtains filtered the view of my quiet cul-de-sac. The rumbling grew louder—an engine, too heavy for a car. I pushed back from my desk and moved to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to peek out.

A moving truck. Large, white, backing carefully into the driveway of the townhouse next door. The property had been empty for two months since Mrs. Abernathy, my cookie-baking neighbor of three years, had moved to Florida to be closer to her grandchildren.

In my neighborhood of attached townhomes, new neighbors were rare, and—potentially-disruptive. My end unit gave me privacy on one side, and Mrs. Abernathy had been quiet and respectful on the other. I'd grown comfortable with her predictable schedule, her occasional friendly waves, and the tacit agreement that neither of us needed to be involved in the other's business.

A new neighbor meant new patterns. New sounds through the shared wall. New potential for uncomfortable small talk at the mailboxes.

I watched as the truck came to a stop. Two men in uniform jumped out from the cab, and the rear door rolled up with a metallic clatter. I stayed at the window longer than was probably polite, observing as they lowered the ramp and disappeared into the truck's interior.

Back at my desk, I refreshed the forum page. Someone had replied to a question I'd asked yesterday about age regression versus age play—a distinction I was still learning about. I read the response but found my attention drifting back to the window every few minutes, distracted by the sounds of furniture being unloaded.

After the third time catching myself peeking through the curtains, I settled back into my chair and tried to focus on the forum. I typed a thank-you reply to the person who'd answered my question, but my thoughts kept swirling around the unknown person moving in next door. What kind of neighbor would they be? Loud music and late parties? Quiet and reclusive? A family with children? An elderly person?

I refreshed ProtectorE's profile again, hoping he'd come online. The red dot remained. I sighed and scrolled through more posts, finding comfort in the shared experiences of other littles, yet feeling the familiar ache of missing something I'd never actually had—a real-life Daddy who understood both sides of me.

A crash from outside made me jump. I rushed back to the window and peered out, catching sight of something I hadn't seen before—a man standing beside the truck, clipboard in hand. He wasn't one of the movers. Taller, more composed, dressed in a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing thick, tanned forearms. Even from a distance, I could see he was directing the process with calm authority. When one of the movers apologized for dropping whatever had made the noise, the man waved it off with a smile that transformed his whole face.

Something about him made me linger at the window, watching. The gentle way he spoke to the movers. The organized manner in which he checked items off his list. The confident set of his shoulders.

I pulled away from the curtain, feeling like I'd been caught spying, though he hadn't looked my way. Back at my laptop, I found myself opening a new browser tab and typing: "how to welcome new neighbors." The adult, responsible thing would be to introduce myself. Mrs. Abernathy had brought me cookies when I moved in three years ago. Maybe I should do the same.

I couldn't stop watching him. The man directing the movers worked with quiet confidence, pointing and nodding as furniture disappeared into the townhouse. His height was the first thing I noticed—tall enough that he ducked when entering the van. But it was his hands that kept drawing my attention: large, capable hands that gestured with purpose, that steadied a wobbling bookshelf with casual strength. I stepped back from the curtain, my heart beating faster than the situation warranted.

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