Page 41 of Hero Daddy

"See something you like?" Chad asked.

"The pasta looks amazing, but . . ." I trailed off, my old insecurities surfacing despite my best efforts to silence them.

"But?" he prompted gently.

I took a deep breath, gathering my courage. This was Chad—the man who had seen me naked, vulnerable, raw with need. If I couldn't be honest with him about this, what was the point of any of it?

"Chad . . . Daddy . . ." I dropped my voice to ensure privacy. "Do you . . . do you want me to lose weight?"

The question hung between us, more revealing in its way than my physical nakedness had been. Chad immediately set his menu down and reached across the table to take my hand. His expression was earnest, his eyes holding mine with unwavering intensity.

"Daliah," he said, his voice firm but incredibly gentle, "you are perfect to me, exactly as you are. I love your curves, I love the softness of you, I love the strength your body has. My only desire for you is that you are healthy, happy, and that you feel beautiful and confident in your own skin. What the scale says, or what anyone else thinks, means absolutely nothing to me. You are my beautiful girl."

The sincerity in his voice, the absolute conviction in his eyes, made my throat tighten with emotion. A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. Chad reached across the table, his thumb gently catching the droplet.

"The pasta sounds perfect," he said, his touch lingering on my cheek. "And maybe we could share the chocolate cake for dessert? I have a bit of a sweet tooth."

His casual suggestion—deliberately steering us toward indulgence rather than restriction—broke through the last of my hesitation. "I'd like that," I said, my voice steadier now.

When our server returned, I ordered the truffle mushroom pasta without a hint of apology or qualification. Chad's approving smile warmed me more than the restaurant's carefully calibrated ambient temperature ever could.

Our food arrived steaming and aromatic. The pasta was as delicious as it had looked on the menu—decadent with cream, earthy with mushrooms, fragrant with herbs. Chad had ordered a perfectly cooked steak, and we fell into comfortable conversation as we ate. He told me stories about his early days in martial arts, and his time in the military, and I shared anecdotes about my most eccentric salon clients.

It struck me how easy it was to talk to him. Despite the intensity of our connection, despite the power dynamic that thrummed beneath the surface of our interactions, there was a simple companionship between us that felt natural and unforced.

"You have a little . . ." Chad leaned forward, brushing his thumb across the corner of my mouth where a bit of sauce had lingered. The gesture was both intimate and caregiving, his touch gentle but sure. He brought his thumb to his own lips afterward, tasting the sauce with a small smile that made my stomach flip.

Over coffee and shared chocolate cake—rich, dark, and decadent—Chad reached for my hand again, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a casual caress.

"Are you free for me this evening, Little One?" he asked, his voice dropping to that private register that seemed to speak directly to something deep inside me. "I was hoping we could spend some quiet time together."

"Yes," I replied, my heart filling with anticipation. "I'd love that."

His fingers squeezed mine gently, a promise of care to come. "Good girl," he murmured, the praise washing over me like warm honey.

The chocolate on my tongue, the warmth of his hand on mine, the certainty in his eyes – it all blended together into a moment of perfect contentment, a feeling of being exactly where I belonged.

***

Theacademylookeddifferentafter hours—quieter, more intimate, the training mats bathed in the soft glow of security lighting rather than the bright fluorescents used during classes.

Chad led me down the now-familiar hallway, past the discipline room where we'd discovered each other so thoroughly the night before, toward the pastel-hued door I'd once fled from in confusion and fear. My steps slowed slightly as we approached, not from reluctance this time, but from a strange sense of anticipation mixed with vulnerability. This threshold felt significant—a deliberate choice to explore a part of myself I'd only just discovered, rather than stumbling into it unprepared.

"Leave the day behind you now," Chad murmured, his hand warm against my lower back. "The world stops at this door. In here, there's only us and whatever you need."

He unlocked the door on the keypad, pushing it open to reveal the nursery I'd glimpsed so briefly before. Without the shock and panic that had clouded my first impression, I could now appreciate the careful thought that had gone into creating this sanctuary. The walls were a soft buttery yellow, not the babyish pastel I'd remembered. The overhead lighting was muted, supplemented by a star-shaped night light casting gentle patterns across one wall. The plush carpet underfoot felt thick and yielding, designed for comfort and safety.

The adult-sized crib still stood against one wall, but it no longer seemed jarring or frightening. Instead, I noticed the quality of its craftsmanship, the sturdy construction, the thick, comfortable-looking mattress with its fresh linens. A bookshelf held volumes ranging from simple picture books to classic fairy tales with beautiful illustrations. Stuffed animals of various sizes were arranged on shelves and in baskets—not cutesy cartoon characters, but realistic-looking forest creatures with soulful eyes and soft fur.

"I have something for you," Chad said, drawing my attention to the rocking chair where a folded bundle of fabric lay waiting. He lifted it, letting it unfold to reveal a set of adult-sized footie pajamas in a soft powdery blue. They looked impossibly cozy, made of thick, high-quality fleece with a subtle pattern of silver stars. "I thought you might like these for our quiet time together."

I reached out, my fingers sinking into the plush fabric. This wasn't a costume or a fetish item—it was simply the most comfortable-looking garment I'd ever seen, designed purely for softness and warmth. The fact that it happened to be styledlike children's sleepwear seemed almost secondary to its obvious comfort.

"The bathroom is through there," Chad said, nodding toward a door I hadn't noticed before. "Take your time. There's no rush here."

The adjoining bathroom was small but immaculate, with fluffy towels and a shower stocked with gentle, lightly scented toiletries. I changed slowly, folding my regular clothes into a neat pile. The pajamas enveloped me in immediate comfort, the fleece soft against my skin, the fit loose enough to move freely but not so baggy that I felt swallowed by them. I caught my reflection in the mirror—my face flushed, my eyes bright with anticipation, my body transformed by this simple garment into something softer, more vulnerable.

I'd expected to feel childish, perhaps even ridiculous. Instead, I felt protected. The physical sensation of being completely covered in such soft material created an immediate sense of security, like being wrapped in a perpetual hug.

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