Page 39 of Daddy Knows Best

"Good thinking." He added categories, leaving space under each. "Green light words?"

"Bee," I said immediately, then blushed at my eagerness. "I mean, if that's—"

"Bee is perfect." He wrote it carefully, like the word mattered. "Yellow?"

"Lavender." The soap taste was gone, but the memory remained. A caution, not a punishment.

"Red stays sunshine." He moved down the page. "Physical boundaries?"

This was harder. My body wanted everything immediately—to climb into his lap, to find out what his skin tasted like, to let him inside me in every possible way. But my brain, the part that had learned something from three days of processing, knew better.

"Public affection is okay," I said slowly. "Holding hands, kissing, normal couple things."

"But?" He prompted gently when I paused.

"But maybe we wait on... the big stuff?" My face burned, but I pushed through. "Until we both explicitly say we're ready?"

Something pleased flickered across his face. "That's very mature boundary setting."

"I have a good teacher."

"Had," he corrected. "Now you have a Daddy who's learning too."

We kept building our agreement—communication expectations, date plans, how to handle the inevitable weird moments. His handwriting filled the page with negotiations that felt nothing like contracts. These were promises to each other, not professional obligations.

"One more thing," he said, adding a final line. "First scene to occur Friday—your place or mine."

"Scene?" My voice hitched on the word.

"If you want." He met my eyes, heat flickering in the gray. "Time to explore what we both need without therapeutic justification. Just us."

"Friday," I agreed, already calculating hours. "My place. Sir Reginald can be our chaperone until then."

He laughed—full and real, not the controlled chuckle from sessions. "Deal."

We both initialed the paper, then sat back to admire our handiwork. A relationship agreement written on printer paper, no letterhead or professional seals. Just two people trying to build something careful from the ruins of what we'd been.

"Now what?" I asked, suddenly shy. The paper said we could touch, but starting felt impossible.

"Now," he said, standing with that fluid grace, then offering me his hand, "I take you to dinner. Like people do when they're courting."

Nate'selectricMiniCooperhummed through North Point's wet streets like a bee navigating between flowers. I sat carefully in the passenger seat, hyperaware of how the sundress rode up my thighs. Without panties, everything felt dangerous and delicious. He drove with the same precision he did everything—smooth gear changes, perfect parallel parking on the first try.

The Lakefront Conservatory glowed against the darkening sky, all Victorian iron and glass lit from within like a jewelry box. Rain had stopped, leaving everything gleaming and fresh. Couples ducked through the arched entrance, and my stomach flipped at joining their ranks. We were a couple now. Sort of. Courting, at least.

"Used to bring my study groups here in grad school," Nate said, coming around to open my door—when had a man last done that? "They do this thing with lavender honey in their cocktails that's probably too on the nose for us."

"That sounds perfect," I said, accepting his offered hand.

The humidity hit immediately, tropical and thick, carrying the perfume of countless flowers. Edison bulbs strung between iron rafters cast everything in warm gold. Ceiling fans turned lazy circles, stirring air that tasted green and alive.

"Reservation for Whitlow," he told the maître d', who led us through a maze of plants that belonged in dinosaur movies.

Our table nestled beneath a monstera so large its leaves could have served as umbrellas. The intimacy of it—tucked away in our own green cave—made my pulse quicken. A waiter appeared with water and menus, and I realized I'd never seen Nate navigate a normal social situation. Who was he when he wasn't managing my crisis?

"Elderflower mocktail," I told the waiter, remembering my empty bank account and new sobriety with equal clarity.

"Balvenie, neat," Nate ordered, then caught my expression. "What?"

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