Page 22 of Hero Daddy

"Littlespace can allow adults to process emotions they might otherwise suppress," one therapist wrote. "In our society, we're taught to hide vulnerability, to push through pain, to always appear composed. Age regression creates a container where those suppressed feelings can be safely expressed and processed with the support of a trusted caregiver."

I read about adults who colored to manage anxiety, who found comfort in stuffed animals during panic attacks, who used the structure of bedtime routines to combat insomnia. None of it sounded pitiful or weak when framed this way. It soundedlike creative adaptation, like finding tools that worked when conventional approaches failed.

But then I read about "rules" and "discipline," and my stomach clenched again. The idea of being told when to sleep, what to eat, how to dress—of being punished for disobedience—could have felt controlling, even abusive. Why did it instead trigger that same familiar whisper of relief?

Because someone would be paying attention, came the answer from some deep, honest part of me. Because someone would care enough to notice.

I'd lived alone for years, made my own decisions, answered to no one. Freedom, I'd always thought. Independence. But in the quiet honesty of this moment, facing these strange new ideas, I recognized the shadow side of that independence—the loneliness, the exhaustion of constant vigilance, the fear that no one would notice if I fell.

The image of Chad standing beside that adult-sized crib returned, but this time without the shock that had initially accompanied it. I saw instead his steady presence, his unwavering attention, his firm but gentle guidance. The safety he represented.

Safety. That was the word that kept appearing in these testimonials, these discussions. Not regression, not childishness, but safety. A protected space to be vulnerable without fear of exploitation or abandonment.

I had been researching for hours.

Thank God for scheduled days off. If Trina had called wondering why I wasn't at Glimmer for my shift, I'd have no coherent explanation to offer. How do you tell your coworker you've spent the night diving into the psychology of adult age regression after your jujitsu instructor showed you his nursery room?

I stretched my stiff legs, wincing as pins and needles shot through my right foot. My notes had evolved from scattered scribbles to an organized system—color-coded tabs on dozens of open browser windows, a spreadsheet comparing different sources' definitions of key terms, a document filled with quotes I found particularly relevant. The nail technician's eye for detail had found a new obsession.

At some point, I'd started cross-referencing psychological literature on attachment theory with forum posts from self-identified Littles. The academic papers gave clinical legitimacy to what the personal testimonials expressed in raw emotional terms. Different languages describing the same human needs—safety, acceptance, unconditional care.

I rubbed my gritty eyes and gulped water from a bottle that had been full hours ago. My throat felt scratchy from talking to myself, working through concepts aloud when reading them wasn't enough. This wasn't just academic curiosity anymore. This was personal archaeology, digging through layers of my own behaviors and reactions, holding each one to the light of new understanding.

I opened a new document and began typing:

"Little One" - His endearment for me from the beginning. Not "sweetheart" or "babe" or other typical terms. Specifically "Little One." He knew before I did?

The cursor blinked at me. I continued:

His authority - I responded immediately. Wanted his approval. Straightened my posture when he watched. Called him "Sir" without thinking.

His corrections - When he corrected my form, it didn't feel like criticism. It felt like care.

His praise - "Good girl" made me feel warm, valued, accomplished. More than any compliment from anyone else.

I stared at the words, clinical and detached on the screen, but each one connected to a visceral memory—the rumble of his voice saying those two words, "good girl," the flutter in my stomach, the immediate desire to earn more of that praise.

Part of me was a Little. The evidence was too strong, the patterns too consistent to deny. The question now wasn't whether this was real, but what I would do with the knowledge—and whether Chad would still be there when I figured it out.

***

Iwasstaringataforum thread titled "Am I a Little if . . . ?" when three sharp knocks on my apartment door sent my heart rocketing into my throat. The sound was so unexpected, so intrusive in my cocoon of research and self-discovery, that for a moment I couldn't move.

The knocks came again, firmer this time. Deliberate. Not the tentative tap of a delivery person or the casual rhythm of a neighbor borrowing sugar.

I closed my laptop with a snap, suddenly conscious of what it contained—dozens of open tabs about Daddy Doms and adult Littles, my own notes and journal entries exploring the possibility that I might be one. What if it was my mother, dropping by unannounced as she sometimes did?

My heart pounded against my ribs as I crept toward the door. I hadn't showered since my training session with Chad. I wore the same sweatpants and baggy t-shirt I'd thrown on after fleeing his academy, now rumpled from my hours-long research binge.

I pressed my eye to the peephole and froze.

Chad.

He stood in my hallway, not in his gi or workout clothes but in fitted dark jeans and a charcoal Henley that stretched across his broad shoulders and chest. His military-short hair was slightlydamp, like he'd recently showered, and he'd shaved since I last saw him. He looked . . . different. Not my instructor, not the imposing sensei, but a man. A very attractive man standing outside my door while I looked and smelled like I'd been living in a library.

I pulled back from the peephole, pressing my forehead against the cool wood of the door. What was he doing here?

My pulse thundered in my ears. After everything I'd learned in the past seven hours, facing Chad felt both terrifying and inevitable. Like a test I hadn't studied for but somehow knew all the answers to.

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