Page 38 of Daddy Knows Best

I held the dress up to the light, checking for stains or tears I'd missed. But it was perfect in its imperfection—a little faded, a little lived-in, completely honest. Like me, maybe. Like who I could be if I stopped trying to purchase a personality.

No panties necessary. The instruction should have felt presumptuous. Instead, it felt like permission. To want. To be wanted. To stop pretending this was anything other than what it had been building toward since that first session.

I had time to shower, to make myself soft and clean and ready. Time to practice what I'd say when he stood at my door in something other than gray armor. Time to prepare for a very different relationship with very different rules.

My hands shook as I laid out the dress, but it was good shaking. Anticipation instead of anxiety. Hope instead of desperation.

Whenhisknockfinallycame, for a moment it felt like my heart was gonna burst.

My bare feet slapped against the floor as I rushed to the door, sundress swishing around my thighs. The lack of underwear made every movement feel free and exciting. Like my body knew what was coming even if my brain scrambled to catch up.

I opened the door and forgot how to breathe.

Gone was the charcoal armor, the pressed shirts that screamed authority. Nate stood in my hallway wearing dark-wash jeans that actually fit, unlike the professional slacks that had hidden his athlete's build. The dove-gray henley clung to his swimmer'sshoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms I'd memorized during sessions. Rain had messed his usually perfect hair, leaving it tousled in a way that made my fingers itch.

"Hi," he said, and even that single syllable sounded different. Warmer. Real.

"Hi," I echoed, stepping back to let him in.

He moved through my doorway with the same careful grace, but the messenger bag slung across his chest—patched with a Northwestern logo and what looked like concert stubs—belonged to someone with a life outside of fixing broken clients.

"You look—" His eyes traveled down the sunflower dress, caught on the bee socks, returned to my face with something soft in his expression. "Perfect. Exactly like yourself."

Heat bloomed in my chest.

He set the messenger bag on my coffee table with deliberate care, then withdrew a manila folder. VOID stamped across it in red ink that looked like blood.

"Session officially terminated at 15:47." His voice carried weight, finality. "The ethics board approved my resignation from your case. These belong to you now."

The folder transferred from his hands to mine, heavier than paper should be. Inside were all my intake forms, the behavioral contracts, the consent agreements that had structured our careful dance. Each page bore that same VOID stamp, turning our professional relationship into historical record.

"So we're really—" I couldn't finish the sentence. Free seemed too small. Done felt too final.

"We really are," he confirmed, then reached back into the bag.

The pacifier clip emerged transformed. Someone—him, it had to be him—had restrung the silicone beads into a delicate bracelet, the clip mechanism replaced with a simple magnetic closure. Pink and white beads alternated in a pattern that lookedintentional, thoughtful. Like jewelry instead of behavioral management.

"If you want it," he added, vulnerability creeping into his voice. "I thought maybe something to remember—"

"Yes." I thrust my wrist at him before he could second-guess the offering. "Yes, I want it."

His fingers were gentle as he fastened the bracelet, adjusting the fit so it wouldn't slide. The beads clicked softly against each other, a soft sound that was surprisingly soothing. When he finished, he didn't let go of my hand immediately. Just held it, studying his handiwork.

"Emily Carter," he said, using my full name with intention. His palms opened, extending between us like an invitation. "May I court you—as the Daddy you chose long before I earned it?"

The words hit me in the solar plexus. Court. Such an old-fashioned word from someone who'd been clinical precision personified. But it fit what this was—intentional, careful, nothing like my usual pattern of falling into relationships through proximity and poor judgment.

"Yes." The word came out embarrassingly breathy. "God, yes. Please."

His smile transformed his whole face, years dropping away. "Then we need new rules. New agreements. Non-clinical ones."

"I have printer paper," I offered, gesturing vaguely toward my desk. "And pens that actually work now."

We settled on the floor like kids with a school project, legs crossed, knees almost touching. He produced a pen from his bag—of course he carried good pens—and smoothed a fresh sheet between us.

"Safe words first," he said, writing in neat letters across the top. "We keep the ones you know?"

"Sunshine for hard stop," I confirmed. "But maybe we need others? For slow down or check in?"

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