Page 18 of Hero Daddy

"Every fighter falls, Daliah," he continued, his voice deep and steady, a rock in the turbulent sea of my emotions. "The difference is, fighters get back up. They learn from the fall. They adjust. They keep moving forward."

His words settled over me, seeping through the cracks in my self-doubt.

"Getting back up sounds good in theory," I said, a watery attempt at humor. "But I'm not sure my legs are working right now."

A hint of a smile touched the corner of Chad's mouth, softening the hard planes of his face. "Your recovery time will improve. Everything does with practice."

I wiped at my face again, conscious of how I must look—red-eyed, sweaty, hair a disaster. Yet Chad's gaze never wavered, never showed a hint of judgment or discomfort with my emotional display.

"Can we try again?" I asked hesitantly, part of me terrified he'd say yes, another part terrified he'd say no.

Chad studied me for a long moment, his eyes moving over my face with careful assessment. "Not today," he decided, his tone making it clear this wasn't negotiable. "Mental fatigue is as real as physical fatigue. Both increase the risk of injury."

I wanted to prove myself, to show him I could get back up, but my body was indeed shaking with exhaustion, and my mind felt like an wrung-out sponge.

"Thank you," I said softly, not entirely sure what I was thanking him for—the lesson, the understanding, the strange comfort of his discipline, or perhaps all of it.

"Stand up, Little One," he said, rising fluidly to his feet and extending a hand to me. "There's something I want to show you." His expression shifted, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Another side of the academy. Something that might help you understand... a different approach to finding your strength."

***

IfollowedChaddownahallway I hadn't noticed before, tucked behind the private training area. Curiosity pushed through my exhaustion, providing a welcome distraction from the lingering embarrassment of my breakdown. What else could this meticulously organized academy possibly contain that Chad thought might help me? Another training room with different equipment? A meditation space? I couldn't imagine.

Chad moved with that same measured pace I'd come to associate with him, his slight limp barely perceptible in his controlled gait. He didn't speak as we walked, and I didn't ask questions, instinctively sensing that whatever he wanted to show me required some kind of mental preparation I wasn't yet capable of articulating.

We reached a door locked by a keypad. Chad paused, turning to face me. His expression had shifted again—still calm, stillcontrolled, but with an underlying vulnerability I hadn't seen before.

"What I'm going to show you is private," he said, his voice lower than usual. "Not everyone at the academy knows about this space. It represents . . . another aspect of the guidance I offer certain students who I think could benefit from it."

Intrigued, I nodded. "I understand."

He studied my face for a moment, as if assessing my readiness. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he turned to the keypad and entered a code, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the numbers. The lock disengaged with a soft click.

"After you," he said, pushing the door open and stepping aside.

I hesitated just a fraction of a second before stepping across the threshold. The contrast with the academy was so stark that I froze just inside the door, my mind struggling to process what I was seeing.

Gone were the austere white walls and utilitarian furnishings. Instead, soft pastel blues and greens covered the walls, with delicate clouds painted near the ceiling. Thick, plush carpeting in a creamy white replaced the hard concrete floors, yielding beneath my feet like fresh snow. The lighting was gentle, provided by lamps with fabric shades that diffused the glow into something warm and comforting rather than the bright, clinical illumination of the training areas.

The air smelled different too—a subtle lavender mixed with something powdery and sweet, reminiscent of baby lotion or freshly laundered clothes. Soft music played at almost subliminal levels, instrumental lullabies that seemed to wrap around the room like an embrace.

As my initial shock faded, I began to catalog the specific items that filled the space. Against one wall stood a beautifully crafted wooden rocking chair with plush cushions, large enough tocomfortably accommodate an adult. Beside it, a bookshelf held what looked like children's picture books, their colorful spines neatly arranged by height. Stuffed animals of various sizes sat on another shelf—a teddy bear with a ribbon around its neck, a floppy-eared rabbit, a soft-looking elephant with a gentle smile stitched onto its trunk.

A low table in one corner held coloring books and a neat arrangement of crayons and colored pencils, all organized by shade. Above it hung framed artwork—simple, childlike drawings in bright colors, carefully matted and preserved behind glass as if they were precious masterpieces.

But what drew my eye most powerfully, what made my breath catch in my throat, was what occupied the far corner of the room—a crib. Not a playpen or a daybed that might have multiple interpretations, but an unmistakable crib, albeit adult-sized. It was beautifully constructed of polished wood, with high sides and decorative spindles. Inside, a mattress covered in soft-looking sheets featured a pattern of smiling stars and moons. Above it hung a mobile of gentle forest creatures that would twirl in a breeze, catching the light on their whimsical painted surfaces.

My mind raced to make sense of what I was seeing. This was clearly a nursery, but one designed for an adult. The implications crashed over me in waves, each one exposing a new question. What was this place? Why would a jujitsu academy have such a room? And why was Chad showing it to me?

I turned, finding him standing just inside the doorway, watching me with that same steady gaze that seemed to see far more than I wanted to reveal. The door had closed behind him, and in this smaller, softer space, his presence felt even more imposing—a solid, immovable anchor amid the gentle pastels and plush surfaces.

"This is a sanctuary, Daliah," he said gently, his deep voice perfectly modulated to the quiet atmosphere of the room. "I am a Daddy Dom. This space is for those who find comfort and strength in embracing their Little side, in allowing themselves to be cared for in a safe, nurturing environment."

A Daddy Dom. The term ignited a spark of recognition. I'd heard it before, glimpsed it perhaps in late-night internet wanderings or magazine articles about alternative lifestyles, but had never connected it to anything in my own experience. Until now.

"Certain individuals," Chad continued, moving further into the room with deliberate steps, "carry tremendous responsibility in their daily lives. They're strong, capable adults who make decisions, care for others, handle stress. But that constant vigilance takes a toll. Sometimes, the greatest strength lies in knowing when to set down those burdens, when to allow someone else to carry them for a while."

His hand brushed over the back of the rocking chair as he passed it, a gesture of familiarity and comfort.

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