Page 48 of Daddy Next Door

"Good news?" Ethan asked from the doorway. He'd changed into more comfortable clothes—worn jeans and a soft henley pushed up at the sleeves—and held two steaming mugs.

I nodded, turning the laptop so he could see the screen. "They love it."

His smile was warm and genuine. "I'm not surprised. It was excellent work." He approached the crib, setting one mug on the side table before lowering the rail. "I thought you might want some tea."

"Thank you." The words felt inadequate for everything he'd done for me today, but they were all I had. I sat up, accepting the mug with both hands, inhaling the fragrant steam. Chamomile with honey, I noted—calming, nurturing.

"You've been asleep for about two hours," Ethan said, answering my unasked question. "It's just after six."

I sipped the tea, feeling more grounded with each moment. The little space haze had receded during my creative burst and subsequent nap, leaving me firmly in my adult headspace—though still wrapped in the comfort and safety Ethan had created.

"Would you like to join me in the living room?" he asked. "I made a simple dinner. Nothing fancy, just pasta."

"That sounds perfect." I closed the laptop and set it aside, then hesitated, looking down at my star-patterned pajamas. "Should I change first?"

Ethan shook his head. "Not unless you want to. You look comfortable."

I was comfortable, both in the soft flannel and in Ethan's acceptance of my shifting states. I climbed out of the crib.

Ethan's living room was warm and inviting, with comfortable furniture and good lighting. A small table by the window was set for dinner, but he guided me to the couch first, settling beside me with his own mug of tea.

"I'm proud of how you handled that design crisis," he said after a moment. "You found a creative solution by allowing yourself space to process differently. That took courage."

"I couldn't have done it without you," I admitted. "I would have just kept staring at the screen, getting more frustrated and upset."

"You needed a different perspective, that's all." He paused, his expression shifting slightly. "But there's just one issue we need to address."

Something in his tone made me sit up straighter, a flutter of nervous anticipation in my stomach. "What's that?"

"I'm concerned that if I hadn't happened to stop by today, you wouldn't have reached out to me." His voice was gentle but firm, the tone he used when he was saying something important.

I looked down at my mug, unable to meet his eyes. He was right. Despite our growing closeness, despite the intimacy we'd shared, I would have suffered alone rather than ask for help.

"I understand why you hesitated," he continued when I didn't respond. "Building a relationship means learning new patterns, and you're used to handling everything on your own. But Lily, while I respect your independence—admire it, even—our relationship needs to include mutual support."

I nodded, still not looking up. "I know. I just—I didn't want to bother you with something so . . . trivial."

"Trivial?" Ethan reached over, tipping my chin up with gentle fingers until I met his gaze. "Anything that upsets you this much is not trivial to me. You’re much more important than my work schedule—that can be reorganized."

"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it.

"I know." He took my free hand, his thumb rubbing small circles on my skin. "You've been handling everything on your own for a long time. It's a hard habit to break."

"It is," I agreed, relieved by his understanding. "But I'll try. I want to be better at . . . at letting you in."

Ethan's expression was serious but loving as he squeezed my hand. "I believe you. And I appreciate your willingness to try." He paused, his eyes holding mine. "But I also think it's important that we establish some expectations clearly, right from the start."

The shift in his tone sent another flutter through my stomach, but it wasn't fear. It was something else—a mixture of anticipation and surrender that I'd come to associate with the deepening aspects of our relationship.

"Expectations?" I echoed.

"Yes." His voice dropped slightly, taking on that quality that signaled his shift into his more dominant role. "Part of our agreement is honest communication, especially when you're struggling. It's not just about your comfort—it's about trust. About allowing me to be the partner—the Daddy—you need."

Heat bloomed in my cheeks at the term, even though we were alone. Even though he'd called me his "little star" and tucked me into a crib just hours ago. There was something more intimate, more claiming, about him using the title in this serious conversation.

"So while I'm proud of how you handled things today," he continued, "there still needs to be a consequence for not reaching out when you needed help."

The word "consequence" sent a jolt through me, a hot wire from my ears to my stomach to lower, secret places.

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