Page 9 of Hero Daddy

"Wakes."

For a moment, I couldn't speak, my carefully rehearsed opening line evaporating under a wave of unexpected shyness.

"Hello?" he prompted, his tone patient but expectant. In that one word, I could hear that he wasn't the type to repeat himself often.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice past the sudden tightness in my throat. "Hello, Sir, it's . . . it's Daliah Matthews," I finally managed, wincing at how girlish I sounded. Why the fuck had I called him ‘Sir’? I cleared my throat and added, "From the park."

There was a brief pause—probably only a second or two, but it stretched in my mind, expanding to fill the room with doubt. My stomach clenched painfully. He'd forgotten. Or worse, he remembered but regretted giving me his number.

"Daliah."

Just my name, but the way he said it—there was a subtle, unmistakable warmth that entered his voice, a gentle note of approval that swept away my anxiety like a hand brushing aside cobwebs. The knot in my stomach loosened.

"I was hoping you'd call," he continued, and I found myself smiling at nothing, at the empty room, at the simple honesty in those five words. "How are you doing?"

The question wasn't perfunctory. He wanted to know. I could hear it in his tone—that same attentiveness I'd felt when he'd examined me for injuries in the park, his eyes clinically assessing yet somehow gentle.

"I'm okay," I began, then stopped. The lie felt wrong, especially to him. "Actually, not great. I haven't been sleeping much. And yesterday, walking home, some guys . . ." I trailed off, not wanting to sound pathetic. "Nothing happened. They just said some things. But it hit me hard."

"I understand," he said, and somehow I believed he did. His voice remained calm, a steady anchor in the choppy sea of mynerves. "That's normal after what you experienced. Your body's still in protection mode."

Protection mode. Yes, that described it perfectly—the hypervigilance, the startling at small noises, the constant scanning for threats. He understood without me having to explain.

"I've been thinking about what you said," I continued, gaining confidence from his receptiveness. "About jujitsu. About . . . practicing being brave." I paused, then admitted, "I don't know if I'd be any good at it."

"That's not what matters at the beginning," Chad said, his tone gentle but firm, like he was explaining something obvious. "What matters is showing up. Learning the fundamentals. The rest comes with time and practice."

The simple logic of it, delivered with such quiet conviction, made something ease inside me. No pressure to be perfect right away. Just show up. I could do that.

"I'd like to try," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "If you think it would help."

"I do," he said without hesitation. Then, after a brief pause: "Why don't you come by the academy this afternoon? Around two? It's quiet then. We can talk properly."

A sense of rightness settled over me, like pieces clicking into place.

"Two o'clock," I repeated. "I'll be there."

"Good."

"Do I need to bring anything?" I asked, suddenly conscious of my lack of proper athletic wear.

"Just yourself," Chad said. "And comfortable clothes you can move in. Nothing special for the first session."

Session. We were going to have a session. The word felt intimate somehow, conjuring images of his eyes focused solely on me, his hands perhaps guiding my movements . . .

I pushed the thought away, my cheeks warming. "Okay. I'll see you at two."

"I'll be waiting," he replied, and the simple statement carried a weight, a promise that settled deep in my bones. Then, softly, he added, "I'm glad you called, Daliah."

***

Atprecisely1:55PM,I stood outside Wake's Jujitsu Academy, my hands shoved deep into my pockets to hide their trembling. The building surprised me—no flashy signage or pictures of muscled men in fighting poses, just a simple black awning with the academy's name in clean white lettering.

I'd changed clothes three times before settling on black leggings and a loose navy t-shirt—the same outfit I'd worn to the park that night, though I tried not to think about the coincidence. My hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and I'd foregone makeup entirely. Practical. Unremarkable. Invisible, I hoped.

A young couple exited the academy, both dressed in white uniforms with colored belts. They were laughing about something, their faces flushed with exertion, bodies moving with the easy confidence of people comfortable in their own skin.

My watch read 1:57. Three minutes until our appointment. I could still leave. Chad would be disappointed, but he'd get over it. He probably had dozens of potential students approach him every week. One no-show wouldn't matter.

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