Page 109 of Becoming His Perfect Daddy
Last we wrote, you told me you met someone. Well, I’ve met someone, too. The perfect man for me. And I fucked it all up by refusing to tell you how I felt.
So here it is, my truth. The truth I’ve known for a while now but haven’t been able to utter.
I love you.
I love you, and I hurt you. I hate myself for doing it, for letting my fear and anxiety win.
You deserved better. Youdeservebetter.
When I met you all those months ago, I was angry. I’d just given up on love for real, for good, and I was livid that the universe sent you to me. That it kept throwing us together. That I couldn’t ignore our connection.
Anxiety’s a real bitch, and it keeps me in my head too much. It sometimes helps me be a better writer, but mostly, it just fucks with my peace. The only time I found reprieve was in your arms. The times you spanked me, daddied me, gave me the space to let go and just be were the balm my soul needed. Those were the times I knew you were the most perfect Daddy for me.
I will always love you for that. For just being you.
I hide too much. I know that. I keep things to myself that I shouldn’t. I keep people at arm’s length because it’s never felt safe to truly be myself. It’s never felt safe to be seen. It’s never felt safe to give my heart away, to let someone else hold it in their hands and promise to protect it.
But you did. You held me, held my heart, even when I wouldn’t admit I loved you back.
And you saw me. God, baby, you saw every part of me that I was terrified to show anyone else. You saw me, and you saved me. And then you called me out on my bullshit. I love you so much for that.
I need you, Sam. This isn’t me forcing you to take me back, because that’s your decision, and despite my actions, I respect you too much to take that away from you. But god, my body aches to be held by you again.
If you ever decide you’re willing to give me another chance—again, your choice—I will do my best to heal from my shit, keep striving every day to be the best man I can be for me so I can be the best man for you. I will work every day to keep telling you the truth, keep being open, keep being vulnerable, keep being honest . . . even if it hurts. Because you deserve it.
You are my life, Daddy, and being your boy has been the honor of my existence. I want to discover what that means with you, explore every piece of myself with you. I want to show you everything, let you inside, hand you my heart for safekeeping, because I know you’ll protect it. I know this, because I know you. I know your heart. It’s been connected with mine from the start, and I’m only now realizing just how much.
I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you this, Sam. Because I love you more than life itself. And I hope I have the chance to show you every day for the rest of our lives.
Always,
Cameron
Chapter twenty-nine
Cameron
Ididn’t send the letter right away. It sat in my drafts folder, the “one unsent draft” notification glaring at me every time I opened my email.
Because, as much as I hated it, I needed time. I needed to process.
I needed to write.
I’d started a manuscript back in July that featured two trans main characters. I hadn’t known S.M.C.—my Sam—was trans at the time, but my first encounter with him at Bears and Brews had settled into my subconscious, though it had taken months for the story to start speaking to me.
But with everything else going on and finishing up Hudson, Charlie, and Theo’s story and starting the next in the series, it had gotten shoved to the back burner.
I’d never written two trans MCs before, never written a T4T romance. Until a few nights ago, the night Sam called me out on my shit, I wasn’t sure why.
Now I knew it was because I was scared.
I was scared that admitting that two trans men could fall in love would shatter my illusion of the perfect man for me. That fucked-up plan I’d made for my life that would never have worked. I was mortified at myself, at the internalized transphobia rampant in that backward fantasy, something I thought I’d worked through in therapy years ago.
But as Sam had reminded me time and again, healing was not a straight line.
My fingers flew over the keys as the story unfolded. I’d had about a third of the book written already, during minor writing sessions over the last six months, so I had a lot to work with. I’d struggled getting the story on the page that whole time, but now, my fingers couldn’t move fast enough.
A week went by, and I’d been writing nearly non-stop—Tristan had taken to bringing me lunch every day to make sure I ate. He hadn’t asked what went wrong with Sam, and I hadn’t offered. I’d tell him when the time was right. When I had the chance to work it out with my Daddy.
