Page 44 of Daddy Next Door

The walls were painted a soft blue that reminded me of twilight, dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars that formed actual constellations. A bookshelf lined one wall, filled with picture books and colorful toys. The floor was covered with a plush white rug that looked like a cloud, scattered with pillows in various shapes—stars, moons, planets. A low table sat in one corner with art supplies neatly arranged.

Ethan closed the door behind us, his presence solid and reassuring at my back. "This is your place whenever you need it."

My place.

"What happens now?" I asked, my voice already sounding different to my own ears—a little higher, a little less certain.

Ethan moved to stand in front of me, his height more noticeable now that I felt smaller inside. "Now we help Lily become little Lily for a while." He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle. "Would you like that?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Words, please," he prompted gently.

"Yes," I managed. "I'd like that."

His smile was warm approval. "Good girl. First, let's get you into something more comfortable."

He led me to a white dresser painted with silver stars, each drawer marked with a little picture instead of a word—clothes in one, toys in another. He opened the clothing drawer and pulled out a set of pajamas—soft flannel printed with constellations on a deep blue background.

"Let's get you changed," Ethan said, setting the pajamas on top of the dresser. He turned to me, hands moving to the bottom of my sweater. "Arms up."

The instruction was so natural, so matter-of-fact, that I obeyed without thinking. He lifted my sweater over my head, folding it neatly and setting it aside. My jeans followed, his movements efficient but unhurried, leaving me standing in my underwear and bra.

In any other context, this undressing would have been sexual. But this was different. His touch was caring rather than arousing, practical rather than passionate. He was undressing me the way a parent might undress a child—with purpose rather than desire.

And yet there was an undercurrent between us, a charge in the air that wasn't sexual but wasn't entirely innocent either. A form of intimacy deeper than physical attraction, built on trust and vulnerability.

He unhooked my bra, replacing it with a soft cotton camisole that matched the pajamas, then helped me step into the pajama pants. The flannel whispered against my legs as he pulled them up, settling them at my waist. The top followed, buttons fastened one by one from bottom to top.

"There," he said, smoothing the fabric over my shoulders. "Comfortable?"

I nodded, running my hands over the soft material. "It's so soft."

"Only the best for my little star." He guided me to a full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door. "Look how pretty you are."

I stared at my reflection, startled by the transformation. The pajamas changed more than just my clothes—they changed how I held myself, how I perceived myself. My posture was different, less rigid. My face looked softer, more open.

His eyes met mine in the mirror. "This is a safe space, Lily. Nothing bad can touch you here."

I believed him. Something in me unwound at his words, a tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. My shoulders dropped. My breathing deepened.

He led me to the cloud-like rug, lowering himself to sit cross-legged and patting the space beside him. I sank down, the plush surface cradling me. Without thinking, I leaned against his side, seeking his warmth and solidity.

"What would you like to do first?" he asked. "We could color, or play with clay, or build something . . ."

Clay. That reminded me, we had to pick up our items from the pottery workshop. I considered the options, surprised by how appealing simple creativity sounded. "Color," I decided. "I want to color."

Ethan reached over to the nearby table, pulling a sketchbook and a wooden box toward us. He opened the box to reveal colored pencils—not the cheap kind, but professional-grade ones with soft, vibrant leads. The artist in me recognized their quality, even as the emerging little girl in me simply appreciated their pretty colors.

"These are special," he said, running his fingers over the pencils. "They make the colors look exactly how you want them to. No pressure, no expectations. Just play."

He opened the sketchbook to a blank page and set it before me. I picked up a blue pencil, the same color as the walls, and made a tentative mark on the page. The tip glided smoothly, leaving a rich line that satisfied something deep inside me.

I added another color, then another. Without planning, a picture began to emerge—a night sky, stars scattered across the darkness. I lost myself in the process, in the pure joy of creation without purpose or judgment. No client would see this. No one would critique it. It existed only for the pleasure of making it.

Beside me, Ethan watched quietly, occasionally murmuring encouragement when I added a particularly nice detail. His presence was comforting rather than intrusive, a safe harbor rather than an audience.

"You're doing so well," Ethan said, his voice that perfect blend of gentle authority that made me feel both praised and protected. "Such beautiful colors."

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