Page 15 of Daddy Next Door

My heart pounded in my ears as pieces clicked into place—Ethan's profession as a child psychologist specializing in play therapy. His natural protective instincts. The way he seemed to see through people to what they needed rather than what they said they wanted.

Suddenly, his interest in me took on new dimensions. Had he somehow sensed my little side? Had he been drawn to me because he recognized something in me that matched what he needed to give?

I moved back to the crib, running my fingers along the smooth wooden rails. They were solid, built to hold an adult's weight. The mattress was firm but yielding when I pressed against it.

A glint of color caught my eye—something hanging from the rails. I leaned closer. A small plush rabbit hung there, attached by a ribbon. It was identical to the one I'd seen in Ethan's desk drawer, but this one was newer, tags still attached. As if it was waiting for someone.

My eyes burned suddenly, tears threatening. The care evident in these rooms overwhelmed me. Someone had created this space with love, with intention, with deep understanding of needs most people kept hidden.

I imagined Ethan here, arranging each item with precision, perhaps thinking of some future little he hadn't yet found. Or had he? The rabbit in his drawer suggested experience. Had there been others who had shared this space with him?

A pang of jealousy surprised me, followed by a wave of longing so intense it made me gasp. I hadn't allowed myself to fully explore my little tendencies—a few online conversations, some private moments alone in my apartment with a stuffed animal and a coloring book. Nothing like this immersive paradise.

I picked up one of the bottles from the shelf, holding it in my hands, testing its weight. It was heavy glass, designed to be held by adult hands while feeding someone else. The nipple was larger than a baby's bottle but shaped similarly. I ran my thumb across it, imagining how it would feel.

My online conversations with ProtectorE flashed through my mind—his gentle encouragement when I'd mentioned wanting to try age regression more deeply, his understanding of the comfort it provided. "Sometimes the strongest people need a safe space to be small," he'd written once. "There's no shame in needing care."

I set the bottle down carefully, exactly where I'd found it. My hand trailed over the changing table, the crib rails, the soft blankets. Each item spoke of care, of attention to detail, of understanding.

I needed to leave. Now. Before I touched anything else, before I gave in to the urge to climb into that crib and see how it felt, before I lost myself completely in the fantasy these rooms represented.

With one last, lingering look, I backed out of the nursery, pulling the hidden door closed. I smoothed the dinosaur pajamas once more before returning them to their drawer. Each item went back exactly as I'd found it, my graphic designer's eye for detail ensuring nothing looked disturbed.

I slipped out of the little room, closing the door behind me, my heart still racing with the magnitude of what I'd discovered. What this meant. What possibilities it opened.

Back in the office, I stood for a moment, trying to compose myself. My skin felt too tight, my thoughts a whirlwind. I needed to get my shirt, change back, and leave before I processed any of this.

But as I turned to head to the laundry room, a deep voice froze me in place.

"Oh dear, looks like someone needs a punishment."

I whirled around, my heart jumping into my throat. Ethan stood in the doorway, his broad frame nearly filling it. His face was calm, but his eyes—those penetrating blue eyes—burned with an intensity I'd never seen before. I was acutely aware of my state: bra clearly visible, legs still wet, my hair disheveled from changing clothes. Caught.

"Ethan," I gasped, my voice coming out higher than normal. “You’re back early!”

“Mmhmm. Conference was kinda dull.”

"I—I can explain."

He didn't move from the doorway. His gaze traveled slowly from my face down to my bare stomach and back up again, lingering for a second on my breasts. He was dressed in business casual—dark slacks and a blue button-down that matched his eyes, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He'd been at a conference. He shouldn't be home yet.

"Can you?" he asked, his voice deeper than I remembered, with an edge I'd never heard before. Not anger, exactly. Something more controlled. More dangerous.

I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly aware that my bra would be visible through the thin gray fabric of his shirt. "There was an accident. With the water. For your plant." The words tumbled out, disconnected and inadequate.

His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. "I can see that." His eyes flicked to the floor where faint water marks still showed despite my cleaning attempts. "And that explains why you're almost nude. In my house."

The way he said "my house" sent a shiver down my spine—possessive, intimate.

"Yes," I said, swallowing hard. "My clothes are in your dryer. I'll change back right away."

Still, he didn't move from the doorway. "And were you in my 'workshop', Lily?"

The way he said my name—soft yet expectant—made my stomach flip. He knew. Of course he knew. The door had been closed when he left. Now it wasn't.

I could lie. Say I was looking for cleaning supplies. But standing there in his shirt, caught red-handed, a lie seemed pointless and small.

"Yes," I admitted, lifting my chin slightly. "I was curious."

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