Page 20 of Daddy of the Mountain

“We’ll use safewords,” he added. “Simple ones. ‘Red’ means stop everything, no exceptions. You say it, we’re done. Got it?”

“Got it,” I echoed, my throat tightening slightly at the gravity behind his words. There was no mistaking how seriously he took this. It wasn’t just a game to him—it was trust, laid bare.

He nodded again, satisfied with my answer. “Alright. Let’s talk about what feels okay to start with. Cuddles?” His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through his usual gruffness. “Gentle care? Maybe a bedtime story, if you’re up for it?”

I couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped me, though it sounded shaky even to my own ears. “A bedtime story? What are you, some kind of mountain-man nanny?”

His smirk deepened, just a fraction. “Something like that. Daddy of the mountain, maybe?”

“Should I call you Daddy?”

“Only if you want to.”

“I think that might be nice, Daddy.”

There was a flush of something in his face. Something like pride?

“That feels nice, you know. It’s been a long time since someone called me that.”

I shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket over my lap as I considered his question. “So, cuddles sound... nice. So does gentle care. Bedtime stories are a maybe. Depends on how ridiculous they are.”

“No promises there,” he said dryly, but there was warmth beneath the humor, a softness I hadn’t expected.

“And discipline?” I asked cautiously, testing the word on my tongue. It felt strange, foreign, but not entirely unwelcome.

Silas’s expression sobered, though not unkindly. “Soft, if it happens at all. Never forced. Always with your consent. Discipline in this context isn’t about punishment—it’s about guidance. Structure. It’s meant to help, not hurt.”

I nodded slowly, letting his words settle over me. “Okay. That . . . makes sense.”

“You good with that?” he asked, his tone gentler now but still laced with that ever-present undercurrent of authority.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I think I am.”

Without a word, he reached out, cupping my cheek in his calloused palm.

My breath caught at the touch, the gesture both tender and grounding, anchoring me in the moment. Silas's thumb brushed gently over my cheekbone, his touch firm yet gentle. I leaned into his hand, a silent plea for comfort she hadn't realized she needed.

"Let me take care of you, Ally," Silas murmured softly, his voice a deep, resonant rumble. It was both a question and a promise, an offer of solace in a world that had felt chaotic and overwhelming.

He hugged me, taking me close. I smelled him. Felt him. Was engulfed in him. I came to rest against his big chest, and felt his heartbeat, so close to mine.

"So. Littlespace," he began, his voice low and deliberate. "It's . . . a mindset. A place you go when you need to let all the adult crap fade out for a while. It's about feeling safe enough to let go. To be vulnerable."

"Like a mental escape?"

"Sort of," he said "It's simpler than that, though. It's more about letting yourself relax into things that feel comforting. Littles might do stuff like color, play with toys, or listen to stories. Things that make 'em feel carefree. Cherished." He paused and I luxuriated in the warmth of him. "It’s not about pretending to be a kid. It’s about finding peace."

That word—"peace"—hung heavy in the air. I swallowed hard, my chest tightening and loosening all at once. "Peace sounds nice. Honestly, sometimes I just . . . I want to stop being responsible for everything. To stop thinking so much. Is that what it's like? Someone else holding the reins?"

"Yeah," he said simply. His voice softened, losing some of its usual grit. "That's part of it. You let someone guide you. Take care of you. Hold the weight for a while."

"Here," he said after a moment, moving gently away from me. “Have a look at this.” He pulled a small wooden box from behind a stack of tools. He blew off a thin layer of dust, flipping the lid open. Inside, nestled against a folded scrap of fabric, was a carved figure. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at me before reaching in and lifting it carefully with his calloused fingers.

When he turned, I saw it clearly—a tiny creature, smooth and polished, shaped like something halfway between a bear and a mouse. Its rounded ears and friendly face made me smile without meaning to. Silas stepped closer, holding it out to me as if it were something precious.

"Don’t have any soft toys here," he said gruffly, almost apologetic. "But this is all I’ve got. Made it years ago. Thought maybe . . . " His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. "Thought you might like it."

I took it from him, my fingertips brushing his palm briefly. The wood was warm and smooth, worn from time and touch. I traced the delicate lines of its shape, the curve of its tiny ears, the gentle slope of its body.

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