Page 19 of Hero Daddy

"For some, this manifests as a desire to return to a simpler state—one where they're protected, nurtured, guided by firm but loving boundaries." His eyes met mine, unflinching. "It's about providing a space where they can experience unconditional care without the constant pressure to be strong for everyone else."

I stood frozen, my mind racing to process what he was telling me. The Little One endearment. The gentle corrections. The way his approval made me stand straighter, try harder. The profound relief I'd felt when he'd taken charge after my attack in the park.

Something stirred in me, a recognition so deep and uncomfortable that I immediately wanted to push it away. This wasn't me. Couldn't be me. I wasn't looking for . . . that. Was I?

"Some find healing here," Chad said, his voice softening further. "Others find a balance they couldn't achieve elsewhere.Some discover a strength they never knew they possessed, because they finally allow themselves to be vulnerable in a controlled, protected environment."

He moved to stand near the crib, his powerful frame a stark contrast to the gentle pastels and soft toys. Yet somehow, he didn't seem out of place. The dichotomy—his evident strength alongside this nurturing space—created a whole that made a strange, compelling sense.

"I create structure," he said simply. "Boundaries. Safety. Within those boundaries, healing and growth can occur." His gaze held mine, unwavering. "Different people need different approaches, Daliah. Sometimes the disciplined structure of martial arts provides what someone needs. Sometimes . . ." He gestured to the room around us. "Sometimes this does."

I realized I hadn't spoken since entering the room. My throat felt tight, constricted by emotions I couldn't name and revelations I wasn't sure how to process. The space itself seemed to invite silence, reflection, a slowing down that felt both foreign and strangely familiar.

"It's a lot to take in," Chad acknowledged, his perception of my internal struggle uncannily accurate. "I don't expect you to understand immediately. I just wanted you to see that there are many paths to finding strength. Sometimes the one that seems most counterintuitive is exactly what's needed."

His words hung in the air between us, gentle but weighty. The soft music continued its lullaby, the mobile above the crib caught a hint of circulating air and turned slightly, sending dappled patterns of light across the plush carpet. Despite my confusion, despite the challenging concepts being presented, an undeniable sense of peace pervaded the room—a feeling of safety that seemed to seep from the very walls.

"Why show me this?" I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

Chad's expression softened, those tiny crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. "Because sometimes, Little One, the strongest fighters need the gentlest care."

"This is . . ." I began, but words failed me. What was this? Shocking? Unexpected? Incomprehensible? None seemed adequate to describe the maelstrom of feelings battering against my ribs.

Behind me, Chad remained silent, giving me space to process.

My eyes landed on the rocking chair, and unbidden, an image flashed in my mind—myself curled in Chad's lap as he rocked slowly, one of his strong hands stroking my hair, the other holding a book he read in that deep, rumbling voice. The vision brought with it a wave of longing so powerful it frightened me. A part of me I'd never acknowledged yearned for exactly that—to be small, protected, cherished without condition. To let someone else carry the weight of decisions, of judgments, of constant vigilance.

For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to imagine it—being cared for so completely, wrapped in the safety of Chad's strength and boundaries. No need to be perfect, to present a polished face to the world, to constantly monitor myself for flaws and failings. Just acceptance, just care, just . . . rest.

The vision felt like sinking into a warm bath after a freezing day—a relief so profound it bordered on pain.

But just as quickly, the rational, adult part of my mind recoiled. What was I thinking? I was twenty-seven years old, not a child. I was here to learn to defend myself, to become stronger, not to be cradled and coddled like a helpless infant. The very idea that Chad might see me that way—might have seen me that way from the beginning—sent a flush of shame crawling up my neck.

"I . . . I don't understand," I stammered, finally turning back to face him. "You think . . . you think I'm a . . . ?"

I couldn't bring myself to say the word "baby," though it echoed in my mind with mortifying clarity.

Chad's expression remained gentle, but something in his eyes sharpened at my distress. He took a careful step toward me, his movements deliberately slow, as if approaching a startled animal.

"I don't 'think' you're anything, Daliah," he said quietly. "I only recognize patterns I've seen before. The way you respond to structure. To guidance. To praise." He paused, choosing his words with evident care. "The way you called yourself 'good' earlier, when you managed the wrist escape. The comfort you found in my direction."

My cheeks burned hotter with each observation. They weren't wrong, exactly, but having them articulated so plainly made me feel exposed, seen in ways I hadn't consented to.

"That's normal," I protested weakly. "Everyone likes to know they're doing well. Everyone appreciates guidance when learning something new."

"Of course," Chad agreed, his tone still measured and calm. "But there are different intensities to these responses. Different . . ." He searched for the right word. "Different frequencies at which people resonate."

I glanced around the room again, my thoughts racing in chaotic spirals. Was this some kind of perversion? Was Chad suggesting I needed to be... infantilized? Would I wear diapers, drink from bottles? The images collided with the warm, comforting vision I'd had moments before, creating a dissonance that made my head throb.

And what if someone found out? Trina. Mrs. Henderson. My mother. The thought of them discovering I'd engaged in something like this made my stomach lurch with dread. Their faces swam before me, twisted with disgust and mockery.

"Not everyone who finds comfort here engages with the same elements," Chad continued, seeming to read at least some of my internal turmoil. "For some, it's about the nurturing aspects—being read to, being held, having someone care for their needs. For others, it's the structure, the rules, the clearly defined expectations." His voice dropped lower. "It can be as simple or as complex as feels right."

"But why would you think this is what I need?" I asked, my voice rising slightly, an edge of panic creeping in. "Just because I got emotional during training? Because I responded to your instructions?"

Chad shook his head. "It's not about one reaction, Daliah. It's about an overall pattern I've observed. The way you seek approval. The way you calm under firm guidance. The way you called me 'Sir' on the phone without prompting. Small signals, but meaningful ones to someone who knows what to look for."

I had called him "Sir," hadn't I? The memory resurfaced—our phone conversation, the word slipping out naturally, feeling right on my tongue. My breathing quickened, coming in shorter gasps as the implications stacked one upon another.

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