Page 26 of Daddy Knows Best

Self-soothing ritual—I'd bought lavender hand cream for $8.99 and used it religiously—check.

Everything completed, every box ticked, model patient report card.

My pulse hammered against my throat. Between my legs, that telltale warmth bloomed—the body's early warning system that I was about to do something stupid. The bee socks seemed to pulse from inside my purse, and I pressed my thighs tighter together.

"Ready for you," Ms. Delgado called, and I shot to my feet so fast the room spun.

She watched me with those wise eyes that missed nothing—not my flushed cheeks, not my trembling hands, not the way I smoothed my dress three times before taking a single step.

"You okay, sweetheart?"

"Perfect," I lied, voice pitched too high. "Just excited to show my progress."

Her expression said she wasn't buying it, but she held the door anyway. "Go on then. Don't keep the doctor waiting."

The hallway had never felt longer. My body moved on autopilot while my mind raced through possibilities: Would he comment on my dress? Would he notice the gloss? Would there be another earned nurture, another chance to be close?

I knocked once, heard his low "Come in," and stepped through the door into air that crackled with seven days of accumulated want.

He stood behind his desk in charcoal gray—always gray, like he'd made a uniform of control. His eyes lifted from whateverhe'd been writing, and for one unguarded second, I watched him take me in. The dress. The gloss. The way I clutched my envelope like a life preserver.

"Ms. Carter." Professional distance, but his voice dropped half an octave on my name. "Please, have a seat."

I was already drowning, and we hadn't even started.

He spread my receipts across his desk like tarot cards revealing my future, each one examined with the focus of a jeweler checking for flaws. I watched his fingers move—those careful, clinical fingers that had cleaned my tear-stained face last week—and tried not to imagine them elsewhere.

"CVS, $6.41." He aligned the receipt with the others. "Within budget. Good choice on generic."

"The name brand was three times more." My voice came out steadier than expected, riding high on the need for his approval.

"Poetry collection?" He held up the handwritten receipt from the used bookstore. "Interesting. Tell me about that."

"Mary Oliver." I shifted in the chair, wrap dress whispering against leather. "I needed something beautiful that didn't cost a fortune. Words instead of things."

Something flickered across his face—surprise maybe, or recognition. He set the receipt down with particular care. "That's excellent redirection. You're learning to feed different hungers."

The praise hit me in the sternum, warm as whiskey. My whole body leaned toward him without permission, desperate for more words like "excellent" from his mouth.

"Final balance, $14.10." He pulled out a small certificate from his drawer, already filled out in his precise handwriting. "Zero overage for the second consecutive week. This level of consistency merits acknowledgment."

The paper transferred from his fingers to mine—official North Point Mental Health letterhead declaring me "FinanciallyResponsible" for Week Three. Such a small thing, but my eyes burned with sudden tears.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"You've earned more than paper." He stood with that liquid grace, moving to the leather wingback. "Today's session includes earned nurture. No regression, no correction. Just reinforcement of the safety you've created through discipline."

My mouth went dry. "What kind of reinforcement?"

"Lap sit. Five minutes of guided grounding while in supportive physical contact." He settled into the chair, gray slacks pulling across his thighs. "It helps the nervous system integrate positive achievements. Completely optional, of course."

Optional. Like anything about being near him felt optional when my body magnetized toward his presence.

"I consent," I said quickly, before wisdom could interfere.

He patted his thigh once—such a simple gesture that sent lightning through my core. "Sideways position. We'll maintain appropriate boundaries while providing the contact your system needs."

I stood on legs that barely remembered their function. The space between his chair and mine felt vast as an ocean, but then I was there, lowering myself across his lap.

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