Page 17 of Hero Daddy

Once the dam broke, the flood was unstoppable. All the insecurities I'd carried for years came pouring out, given voice by fatigue and frustration.

"Look at me," I choked out, gesturing helplessly at my body, my face still hidden behind one hand. "I'm not built for this. I can't even climb a flight of stairs without getting winded. I've spent my whole life being the last one picked, the one who couldn't keep up . . ." My voice cracked. "I thought maybe this would be different, but I'm still the same pathetic Daliah who couldn't run the mile in middle school without everyone laughing."

I sank to my knees on the mat, shoulders shaking with sobs I couldn't control. The physical failure had cracked me open, exposing all the jagged, broken pieces I'd spent years trying to hide.

"Mrs. Henderson was right," I whispered, the words bitter on my tongue. "I should stick to painting other women's nails and stop pretending I could ever be anything else."

I couldn't look at Chad. Couldn't bear to see pity or, worse, confirmation in his eyes. The small gains of the earlier session—the wrist escape, the Kimura lock—seemed hollow now, lucky flukes rather than genuine progress.

"I'm sorry," I managed between hiccupping breaths. "I'm sorry for wasting your time."

I felt myself shrinking, physically curling inward as if I could disappear into the mat, all the fragile confidence I'd started to build crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide. In that moment, I wasn't twenty-seven-year-old Daliah taking her first steps toward empowerment. I was twelve-year-old Daliah, standing on the edge of the track while Jason Meyers mooed, the teacher looking away in secondhand embarrassment.

Through the blur of my tears, I could just make out Chad's stillness. He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, was simply watching me fall apart with an expression I couldn't read through the watery veil of my shame. When he finally spoke, it was just one word.

"Daliah."

My body responded to his voice before my mind could process why.

"Look at me." The command was gentle but unmistakable, the tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

I shook my head, my hands still covering my face. I couldn't bear it—couldn't face him after making such a fool of myself. My fingers pressed harder against my eyes, as if I could physically hold back the humiliation seeping from them.

"Daliah." This time, a hint of steel threaded through my name. "Look at me now."

I raised my gaze reluctantly, expecting to find disappointment or, worse, pity in his eyes. Instead, I found something entirely different—a calm, steady assessment coupled with unexpected warmth. No judgment, just clarity.

"That," he said, his voice quiet but carrying an authority that vibrated in the air between us, "is your only real opponent here.Not the technique, not me. That voice in your head telling you you can't. It's lying to you, and I won't allow you to listen to it in my academy."

I blinked, tears still tracking down my heated cheeks, momentarily confused by his words.

"I don't understand," I managed, my voice hoarse.

"Your body isn't your enemy, Daliah. Your doubt is." Chad's gaze remained unwavering, holding mine with gentle insistence. "The words you just spoke—about being too slow, too clumsy, not built for this—those are the attackers you need to defend against first."

Something cracked open in my chest, a fissure running through defenses I hadn't realized I'd built.

"But I couldn't do it," I whispered. "I tried and failed."

"You didn't fail. You practiced," he corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Failure implies an end point. Practice is a process."

The discipline in his voice made me instinctively want to straighten, to be good, to meet whatever standard he was setting. I swiped at my face with the back of my hand, shame washing through me in a hot wave. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"Don't apologize for feelings, only for actions that harm," he interrupted, his tone softening slightly. "Your frustration is valid. Your tears are valid. Your negative self-talk is not."

The sternness in his eyes shifted subtly as he took in my tear-streaked face and trembling shoulders. Something else replaced it—a gentleness that hadn't been there a moment before, a protective concern that made the air between us feel different, charged with an energy I couldn't name but could definitely feel.

"You're my little fighter, remember?" he said, his voice dropping to that low, gentle rumble that seemed to bypass my ears entirely and resonate directly in my chest. "I'm proud of how hard you're trying. This is difficult. It's supposed to be. Yourbody is learning new pathways. Be patient with it. Be kind to it. It's strong, Daliah. You just have to learn to trust it."

My little fighter.

The words wrapped around me like a warm blanket on a cold night, comforting and secure. He was proud of me. Not disappointed. Proud. The concept was so foreign, so unexpected, that fresh tears welled in my eyes—different tears, ones that had nothing to do with frustration or shame.

"I've never been strong," I admitted, the words barely audible.

"Strength isn't always visible," Chad replied. "The first time I saw you, you were fighting back against a man who had every physical advantage. That took strength. Not skill—we're building that now—but raw courage." His eyes held mine, intense and unwavering. "That can't be taught."

A small, fragile bubble of warmth expanded in my chest.

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