Page 46 of Daddy Next Door

He led me to a small bathroom attached to the nursery, a space I hadn't noticed during my first discovery of the room. Ethan supervised as I washed my hands, making sure I removed all traces of clay from between my fingers.

"Good job," he praised, drying my hands with a soft towel. "Now it's sleepy time."

He guided me toward the crib—the piece of furniture that had most shocked me during my first accidental discovery of this room. It was adult-sized but unmistakably a crib, with high sides and a gate that could be lowered and raised. The frame was white, sturdy without being institutional, clearly custom-built. The mattress inside was covered with the star-patterned sheets I'd noticed earlier, a plush quilt folded at the foot, and several pillows arranged against the headboard.

Ethan lowered the side rail with a soft click. "In you go, little one."

I hesitated, not from reluctance but from a sudden wave of emotion. This was the heart of it—the most vulnerable aspect of my little side. Not the coloring or the clay or even the special clothes, but this complete surrender of independence, this admission that sometimes I needed the safety of defined boundaries, the comfort of being contained.

Ethan sensed my momentary conflict. "It's okay," he said softly. "This is just for us. No one else ever has to know what you need or why you need it." He held out his hand. "Trust me?"

I took his hand, the question settling me. This wasn't about the crib. It was about trust. And I did trust him—with my vulnerability, with my secret needs, with the parts of myself I'd hidden from everyone else.

I climbed into the crib, the mattress giving slightly beneath my weight. It was surprisingly comfortable, firm enough for support but with a layer of softness on top. Ethan helped me lie back against the pillows, lifting my legs to tuck them under the quilt he unfolded over me. The material was weighted slightly, providing a gentle pressure that immediately soothed something inside me.

Ethan raised the crib rail with a click that sounded like safety. Then he moved to a rocking chair positioned beside the crib—a large, cushioned chair clearly designed for an adult's comfort during long hours of watching over precious cargo.

He settled into it, the wood creaking slightly beneath his weight, and reached for a book on the small table beside the chair. "Would you like a story?" he asked, though we both knew the answer.

I nodded, curling onto my side to face him. "Yes, please."

The book he'd chosen was unfamiliar to me—not a classic from my childhood, but something new. The cover showed a little star lost in a big sky. Ethan opened it, holding it so I could see the illustrations as he read.

"Once upon a time," he began, his voice dropping into a rhythmic cadence perfect for storytelling, "there was a little star who shone brighter than all the rest..."

The story was simple but beautiful—a tale about a star who thought her light was too different from the others, until she discovered that her unique brightness helped lost travelers find their way home. Ethan read with quiet animation, changing his voice slightly for different characters, pausing to let me see the pictures, his eyes occasionally meeting mine over the top of the book.

I fought against sleep, wanting to hear how the story ended, but the combination of emotional exhaustion, physical comfort, and Ethan's soothing voice was too powerful to resist. My eyelids grew heavier with each page turn, the story blurring into a pleasant hum of sound.

Ethan must have noticed, because he lowered his voice even further, slowing his pace. By the time he closed the book, my eyes were closed, though I wasn't quite asleep.

I felt him rise from the chair, heard his quiet approach to the crib. His hand passed gently over my hair, tucking a strand behind my ear.

"Rest now, little star," he murmured. "Your big brain needs some quiet time."

I wanted to respond, to thank him, but sleep pulled at me too strongly. I drifted in that liminal space between wakefulness and dreams, where thoughts move like fish in deep water—fluid, unrestrained by logic or expectation.

In that twilight state, unbidden, the Vitality Juice design floated through my mind. But this time, instead of seeing the flaws the client had criticized, I saw the design with new eyes. The colors that had seemed so right now appeared forced, trying too hard to be trendy and sophisticated. The typography that I'd labored over now looked stiff, at odds with the organic nature of the product.

In the free-flowing space of my drowsy mind, a new concept began to form. Not a complete redesign, but a significant shift in approach. The same basic elements but arranged with more authenticity, less artifice. Colors that evoked the actual fruits and vegetables in their juices rather than abstract concepts of wellness. Typography that felt handcrafted rather than computer-generated. A design that celebrated rather than disguised the playful, vibrant nature of their products.

Vitality Juice wasn't about sophistication—it was about life, energy, joy. The very qualities I'd been expressing through play in this room.

The realization jolted me from the edge of sleep. I sat up suddenly, my heart racing with creative excitement rather than anxiety.

"Daddy, I need my computer!" The words burst out, urgent and clear despite the lingering drowsiness. "I know how to fix it!"

Ethan appeared beside the crib, having never gone far. His expression shifted from concern to understanding as he registered my words.

"Your design?" he asked.

I nodded eagerly. "I can see it now. What was wrong. What it needs to be."

He studied me for a moment, noting the change in my voice, the shift in my posture. I was still in the star pajamas, still in a crib—but the fog of little space had partially lifted, burned away by the clarity of creative insight.

Without hesitation, Ethan lowered the crib rail. "Wait here," he said. "I'll get your laptop."

He returned moments later with my computer and its charger. Instead of suggesting we move to a desk or the living room, he set it up right there on the bed of the crib, understanding intuitively that I needed to capture this inspiration before it faded, regardless of the incongruous setting.

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