Page 12 of Daddy Next Door

God, this place was so tidy! Not a dish in the sink, not a speck on the countertops. The living room beyond was equally immaculate—books arranged by height on the shelves, throw pillows perfectly positioned on the leather couch.

My apartment, with its organized chaos and colorful clutter, felt like a child's playroom in comparison. Here, every object seemed to have been placed with intention, creating a space that was both masculine and welcoming.

I moved through the house carefully, as if my presence might somehow disrupt its perfect order. The peace lily sat on a side table in the living room, its dark green leaves healthy and vibrant. I approached it slowly, measuring cup extended like an offering.

"Look at you," I whispered to the plant. "He takes good care of you, doesn't he?"

As I carefully poured water into the soil, avoiding the leaves as Ethan had instructed, I noticed a framed photo I hadn't seen before. Ethan with his arm around an older woman—his mother, maybe? They had the same kind eyes. Next to it was another photo of him with a group of colleagues, all wearing lanyards at what looked like a conference.

I wondered what his conference was like right now.

Now I just had the rest of the plants to water.

The bookshelf held psychology texts but also fiction—thrillers mostly, with a few classics mixed in. A notebook lay closed on the coffee table, a pen resting perfectly parallel beside it. There was a softness to the space that belied its order—throw blankets that looked well-used, a chair positioned perfectly by the window that seemed designed for long hours of reading.

Ethan's office sat at the end of the hallway, door slightly ajar as if inviting me in. I hesitated at the threshold, measuring cup still in hand. This room felt more personal than the others—the place where he worked, thought, maybe even revealed more of himself than the carefully curated public spaces. I pushed the door open wider, telling myself I was just being thorough about my plant-watering duties.

The peace lily's twin sat on a corner table near the window, bathed in filtered light. The rest of the office was exactly what I'd expect from Ethan—organized, functional, but with touches of warmth. A large desk dominated one wall, its surface nearly empty save for a closed laptop, a leather-bound planner, and an open book.

I approached the desk, unable to resist looking at the book—a text on psychology, open to a chapter about creating safe spaces for emotional expression. Sticky notes marked several passages, the handwriting precise and slanted. I leaned closer, reading a note in the margin: "Connection between play therapy and adult emotional regulation?"

My fingers hovered over the page, not quite touching. This felt intimate, like reading someone's diary. Yet I couldn't look away.

A half-open drawer caught my eye—the only imperfection in the otherwise immaculate space. Through the gap, I glimpsed splashes of color that seemed out of place in the subdued office. I shouldn't look. This wasn't why I was here.

I pulled the drawer open anyway.

Inside were therapy tools—stress balls in bright colors, fidget toys, a jar of putty, and what looked like small stuffed animals. Tools of his trade, obviously. He'd mentioned working with families and children. These would help put kids at ease.

And adults.

Something about the careful organization, the quality of the items—they didn't look like disposable office supplies. They seemed cherished, arranged with intention. One small plush rabbit sat apart from the others, well-worn as if it had been handled often.

"Focus, Lily," I muttered, closing the drawer and turning back to the plant.

I needed to water it and leave before I invaded Ethan's privacy any further. I stepped carefully around the desk, measuring cup extended. The plant looked healthy, its leaves glossy and upright. I began to pour, taking care not to splash the water.

That's when it happened.

My hip bumped the edge of the desk—not hard, but enough to startle me. My hand jerked, sending water arcing through the air. Time seemed to slow as I watched the liquid splash across my chest and stomach, soaking my light blue top instantly.

"Shit!" I gasped, jumping back.

Too late. The damage was done. Cold water plastered my shirt to my skin, and I looked down to see my pink bra clearly visible through the now-transparent fabric. Water dripped down onto my jeans, creating dark splotches on my thighs.

I stood frozen, holding the now-empty measuring cup, water dripping from my fingertips onto the hardwood floor. Panic bubbled up in my throat. I couldn't go home like this. The shirt was completely see-through, my nipples visibly pebbling against the wet fabric from both the cold water and my sudden anxiety.

"Great job, Lily," I hissed at myself. "Really smooth."

What were my options? I could wait for the shirt to dry, but that could take hours, and the wet fabric was already uncomfortable against my skin. I could call a friend to bring me clothes, but then I'd have to explain why I was in Ethan's house, partially soaked and freaking out.

Or I could borrow something of Ethan's to wear home and return it later.

That last option felt like crossing another boundary, but it seemed like the only practical solution. I also felt like Ethan wouldn’t mind—no doubt he’d want me to do whatever made me feel the most comfortable. I looked down at the growing puddle beneath my feet. And now I had a mess to clean up too.

"Fine. Clothes first, then clean up," I decided.

I peeled the wet shirt away from my skin, grimacing at the cold clamminess. My jeans weren't as bad, just spotted with water, but the shirt was unwearable. After a moment's hesitation, I pulled it over my head.

---