Page 45 of Daddy Next Door

I looked up at him, a smile spreading across my face without my conscious direction. "Thank you, Daddy."

The word slipped out naturally, without thought or embarrassment. It felt right, like a key finding its lock. His answering smile told me he thought so too.

"You're welcome, little one." He reached out to brush my hair back from my face, his fingers lingering. "Your hair's getting in your eyes. Would you like me to fix it for you?"

I nodded eagerly. He rose and retrieved a brush and several colorful hair clips from a small basket on the dresser. Settling behind me, he began to brush my hair with long, gentle strokes. The sensation was heavenly—soothing and stimulating at the same time, raising pleasant shivers along my scalp and neck.

"Close your eyes," he murmured. "Just feel."

I did, surrendering to the rhythm of the brush and the gentle tug when he encountered a small tangle. He worked methodically, section by section, smoothing and arranging my hair with careful attention. I felt myself melting, tension draining from my body with each stroke.

When he finished brushing, he sectioned my hair and secured it with clips—little stars, I discovered when I reached up to touch them afterward.

"Perfect," he declared. "Would you like something to drink? I have apple juice in a special cup just for you."

I nodded, suddenly aware of my thirst. He returned moments later with a sippy cup—adult-sized but designed with the same star pattern as my pajamas. I accepted it with both hands, the familiar weight triggering memories of childhood comfort. The juice was cold and sweet, exactly what I needed.

"Good?" Ethan asked.

I nodded, taking another drink. "Good."

He settled beside me again, one arm draped protectively around my shoulders. "What else would you like to do, little star? We have plenty of time."

I considered the options, my gaze drifting to the art supplies. "Clay," I decided. "The squishy kind."

Ethan retrieved a container of modeling clay in assorted colors, setting it on the low table. I moved to kneel in front of it, opening the container with eager fingers. The clay was soft and pliable, yielding easily to my touch, different to the clay we’d used at the workshop. I broke off a piece of blue and a piece of yellow, working them together until they formed a satisfying green.

As I played, shaping the clay into simple forms—stars, hearts, a little house—my mind drifted. Ideas bubbled up from somewhere deep and untapped, flowing through fingers that worked without conscious direction.

“I love watching you play,” Ethan said, but I wasn’t listening.

I paused, a half-formed shape in my hands, as a thought surfaced—not from little Lily, but from the designer who still existed somewhere inside me. An insight about the rejected design, a potential solution that had been hiding just beyond my conscious reach.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Ethan asked, noticing my stillness.

I blinked, the thought slipping away as quickly as it had come. "Nothing," I said, my voice higher and softer than my adult tone. "Just thinking."

"Don't think too hard," he advised, smoothing a hand over my hair. "This is play time."

I nodded and returned to my clay, the insight retreating to some back corner of my mind where it would wait until I was ready for it. For now, there was only this—soft clay, gentle hands, a safe space where nothing was expected of me except to be.

I was safe. I was small. I was exactly where I needed to be.

***

Ilosttrackoftimein the haze of colors and shapes, the world narrowing to just my hands and the materials before me. My eyelids grew heavy, the weight of the day settling into my bones. I yawned, a big, unself-conscious stretch of my mouth that I didn't bother to cover. Ethan noticed immediately—he seemed to notice everything about me, every small shift in energy or need before I could voice it.

"Someone's getting sleepy," he observed, his voice gentle.

I shook my head, despite the heaviness pulling at me. "Not tired," I mumbled, even as another yawn contradicted my words.

Ethan chuckled, the sound warm and deep. "I think your body disagrees with you, little star." He began gathering the clay, returning it to its container with careful hands. "You've had a big day with big feelings. I think it's time for a rest."

I wanted to protest—the part of me that hated to admit weakness, that saw sleep as surrender—but that voice was distant now, muffled beneath layers of comfort and safety. Instead, I nodded, rubbing my eyes with clay-smudged fingers.

"Naptime," I agreed, the word falling easily from my lips.

Ethan smiled, pleased by my acceptance. "Let's wash those hands first."

---