Page 23 of Hero Daddy

"Daliah? It's Chad Wakes. Are you home?"

I stood frozen, my mind racing through options. I could pretend to be out. Could call through the door that I was busy. Could simply not respond until he gave up and left.

Deep down though, I knew that wasn’t an option.

"Just a minute," I called, my voice cracking from disuse.

I yanked my fingers through my tangled hair, pinched my cheeks for some color, and wished desperately for a mint. But there was no more time for preparations. I unlatched the door but kept the security chain on, opening it just wide enough to see him properly without fully inviting him in.

The crack of the doorway framed him perfectly—broad shoulders, strong jaw, those gray eyes that seemed to see straight through pretense. Up close, I noticed the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension in his posture that his calm expression couldn't quite hide.

I clutched the edge of the door like it could anchor me in the storm of emotions his presence triggered. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to check on you," he said simply. "After this morning . . . I was worried."

"I'm fine," I said automatically, the standard response when someone asks how you are, even when you're anything but fine.

Chad's eyes tracked over my face, taking in details I couldn't hide—the redness of my eyes, the pallor of my skin, the tension in my jaw. He didn't call out my obvious lie, just nodded once.

"Can we talk for a moment?" he asked, his voice steady, no hint of pushiness. "I won't stay long. I just . . ." He paused, and something vulnerable flickered across his face. "I need to apologize."

I studied his face through the narrow opening, searching for signs of insincerity or manipulation. But all I saw was open concern and what looked genuinely like remorse.

The sincerity in his expression disarmed me. My grip on the door loosened slightly.

What harm could there be in hearing him out?

"Okay," I said finally, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.

I closed the door to unlatch the security chain, using those few seconds to take a steadying breath. Then I opened it fully, stepping back to let him enter.

"Thank you," he said.

I gestured awkwardly toward my living room, hyperaware of the contrast between his pristine appearance and my disheveled state. "We can talk in there."

He nodded and followed me in, his eyes briefly scanning the room but not lingering on the disorder in a way that might have made me feel judged. Just taking in the space, orienting himself.

Chad sat on my couch, his large hands clasped between his knees, looking more vulnerable than I'd ever seen him. The control and confidence that had defined him at the academy seemed muted.

"I owe you an apology, Daliah," he began, his voice lower than usual, intimate in the close confines of my living room."I handled that badly. Showing you the sanctuary, explaining things the way I did . . . it was too much, too soon." He met my eyes directly, no evasion in his gaze. "I misread the situation, and I clearly overwhelmed you and made you feel unsafe. That was never my intention, and for that, I am truly sorry."

The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, so different from the hollow apologies I'd received throughout my life—from men who bumped into me without looking, from customers at the salon who arrived late for appointments, from my mother when she criticized my appearance then claimed she meant well.

"I . . ." I began, unsure how to respond. The research I'd done had given me context for everything that had happened, had helped me understand not just what Chad had shown me but why it might have resonated with parts of myself I'd never acknowledged. But he didn't know that. He thought he was apologizing to someone still completely in the dark.

"You don't need to say anything," Chad continued, sparing me from having to form a coherent response. "I just want you to know that my only goal has ever been to help you find your strength and confidence. I saw something in you from the beginning—not weakness, but potential. Untapped resilience."

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding mine with that same intensity I remembered from our training sessions, but tempered now with something gentler. "When you came to the academy, you were looking for self-defense training. That's what I should have focused on exclusively. Instead, I . . ." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I projected something onto you based on patterns I recognized. That was presumptuous of me. And dangerous."

I watched his face as he spoke, fascinated by this new side of him. The authority was still there in his posture, in the steady rhythm of his words, but layered now with a vulnerability I hadn't witnessed before.

"Your self-defense training is important," Chad continued. "I don't want my mistake to derail that. You've already shown real potential in the techniques we practiced." A brief flicker of pride crossed his face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "The wrist escape you mastered would have helped you in the park that night. There's more you can learn, skills that could make a real difference if you ever faced a similar situation."

My mind flashed to that night—the rough hands, the stink of cheap beer, the paralyzing fear. Then to Chad's intervention, his controlled movements, the absolute certainty that I was safe in his presence. The thought of never feeling that certainty again created a hollow ache behind my ribs.

"I understand if you don't feel comfortable training with me personally anymore," he said, his voice carefully neutral, giving nothing away of his own preferences. "I've already spoken to another instructor at the academy, Sarah. She's excellent, very experienced, and I know she could help you."

He paused, making sure I was following. "There would be no . . . pressure, none of the other elements I spoke about. Just pure self-defense. You deserve to feel confident in your ability to protect yourself, regardless of . . . other misunderstandings between us."

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