Page 11 of Daddy's Firm Hand

Glancing sideways at David, I caught his encouraging nod. Permission to proceed. To play.

I pressed the crayon to paper, a decisive downstroke. The size of the crayon made any kind of precision almost impossible. The line was broad, imperfect. So different from the neat figures and fastidious notes that usually flowed from my hands. I felt my brow furrow, the instinct to correct, refine, redo.

"Don't think," David murmured, his voice a gentle rumble. "Just feel."

Feel. When had I last allowed myself that luxury? Swallowing hard, I dragged the purple across the page, a sweeping arc. Then another, intersecting. Gradually, I built an abstract landscape, colors bleeding together in unplanned harmony.

As I lost myself in the unselfconscious scribbling, something loosened in my chest. A laugh bubbled up, surprising me with its lightness. When had I last giggled like that? Grinned unselfconsciously, not caring how I looked or sounded?

"There you go," David said softly, approval warming his tone. "That's my girl."

His girl. The words settled over me like a cozy blanket, comforting and cherished. I peeked at him from beneath my lashes, cheeks flushed with more than just exertion.

In this space he'd carved out, this time he'd gifted me, I could simply be. Expectations and appearances fell away, leaving only an unencumbered version of myself. Messy. Real. Accepted.

With each stroke of crayon, each splash of paint, I felt lighter. Layers of tension and tightness flaked away. Unnoticed, I began to hum, a childlike tune that had been trapped behind tensed lips for far too long.

"This is . . ." I searched for the right word, realizing I was grinning unabashedly. "Freeing."

"Good," David said, leaning closer to admire my handiwork. "You're doing beautifully."

Under his attentive gaze, my spine straightened a touch. No longer hunched over in self-consciousness, but basking in his praise, his presence.

We continued like that, side by side, shoulders brushing. Quiet camaraderie broken only by the occasional delighted giggle or murmured encouragement. In that pocket of tranquility, something precious blossomed.

Trust. In him, but more importantly, in myself. To be imperfect. To make mistakes. To let my guard down.

As I drew, David rose, retrieving a tray laden with delights. My nose twitched at the delectable aroma, stomach grumbling in anticipation.

"I thought you might be feeling a bit peckish, little one," he said, setting the spread before me. Bite-sized sandwiches, veggie sticks arranged like rainbow spokes, and fruit cut into whimsical shapes - stars, hearts, flowers. A veritable garden of snackable treasures.

But what caught my eye was the cup. Bright purple, my favorite color, with a festive twisty straw and a subtle glitter to the plastic. Childish, in the best possible way. I reached for it, marveling at the lightness, the way it fit perfectly in my grasp.

"Grape juice," David supplied as I took an experimental sip. The sweet tartness danced on my tongue, refreshing and nostalgic all at once. I grinned around the straw, savoring each gulp.

"It's . . . perfect. All of it. Thank you, David. It feels, too good to be true. Overwhelming."

He simply nodded, a satisfied smile playing at his lips. "Take your time, sweetheart. Enjoy."

A sudden thought entered my mind. I thought back to the contract. There was a part about what I should call David.

Daddy.

I decided to try it.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

I think it took him by surprise. For a moment, for the first time ever, it was as though his cool was shaken, like something unexpected had happened.

Then, a broad, pure grin settled on his face.

“You don’t know how good it feels for you to call me that,” he said.

“I like calling you it.”

“That’s wonderful.”

I enjoyed the juice a lot. And the snack, too. Each morsel a burst of flavor, each sip a cool kiss of comfort. I hadn't realized the depths of my hunger, the simple joy of nourishment freely given.

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