Page 37 of Wings
Wings
WatchingKiarasleepwasmy new religion.
These past few days, since we confessed our feelings for each other, I’d watched her every morning. It felt like the biggest privilege of my life.
Today was no different. I'd been awake for an hour, maybe more, just watching her breathe. She'd curled into me during the night, one small hand fisted in my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear. The fairy lights cast shadows across her face, highlighting the peace that sleep brought her—no hypervigilance, no careful masks, just my baby girl dreaming safe.
My chest ached with something fierce and protective. Three years of wondering if she was okay, if Alex had finally pushed too far, if she'd found someone who could give her what she deserved. Now she was here, wrapped in butterfly sheets I'd picked because they reminded me of her sketches, trusting me with parts of herself she'd kept hidden from everyone else.
The weight of that trust settled over me like body armor—heavy but necessary.
I made a soft sound as I shifted, careful not to wake her as I slipped from the bed. She made a small moan of protest, burrowing deeper into the warm spot I'd left behind. I pulled the blanket up to her chin, couldn't resist pressing a kiss to her temple.
The dresser drawer opened silent—I'd oiled the tracks yesterday while she was downstairs with Mia. Inside, folded neat as any military inspection, lay the things I'd bought for her. Soft cotton panties in pastels. A few pairs with lace edges for when she wanted to feel pretty. Nothing overtly sexual—this wasn't about that. This was about care. About starting each day with an act of love, even in something as simple as choosing what she'd wear.
I selected a pair in pale yellow with white lace trim. Soft as butterfly wings. They'd make her blush when she realized what I'd done, but they'd also remind her throughout the day that someone was thinking about her comfort, her needs.
"Mmm . . . Daddy?"
Her sleep-rough voice made me turn. She'd pushed up on one elbow, hair a mess of copper tangles, eyes still heavy with dreams. My heart did that complicated thing it always did when she called me that—part possession, part protection, all love.
"Morning, baby girl." I moved back to the bed, sitting on the edge. "Sleep good?"
She nodded, then noticed what I held. Color flooded her cheeks exactly like I'd predicted. "Did you—are those for me?"
I smoothed her hair back, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Thought we'd start the day with Daddy taking care of you. That okay?"
The vulnerability in her eyes nearly undid me. Like she still couldn't quite believe someone would care about such small details. She nodded again, shy but trusting.
"Good girl. Why don't you get cleaned up, put these on, and meet me in the kitchen? I'll make coffee."
Twenty minutes later, she padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing the jeans and soft sweater from yesterday but moving different. Knowing what she wore underneath, what I'd chosen for her, had shifted something in her posture. She looked cared for. Claimed.
The clubhouse was tomb-quiet this early. Just us and the gurgle of the coffee maker, the occasional creak of the building settling. I'd already set out two mugs—hers with butterflies, mine plain black. The vanilla creamer she liked waited on the counter.
"Sit," I said gently, pouring coffee. "Let’s talk."
Fear flashed across her face before she could hide it. Old conditioning—serious talks meant bad news, disappointment, someone listing all the ways she'd failed. I caught her hand before she could retreat into herself.
"Not bad, baby girl. Just important."
She settled into the chair, hands wrapped around her mug like it could anchor her. I took the seat across from her, close enough our knees touched under the table.
"I've been thinking about what you need," I started, watching her face. "Structure. Consistency. Making sure that you take care of yourself. I know you’ve struggled with that."
Her breath hitched. Direct hit.
"So we're going to have some rules. Not many, not complicated. Just a foundation to build on."
"Rules?" The word came out small, curious more than scared.
"Three to start." I held up fingers as I counted. "First—bedtime. Every night, ten PM, you're in bed. Not scrolling yourphone, not reading medical journals, not organizing supplies. In bed, lights out, actually resting."
She opened her mouth—to protest, probably—but I pressed on.
"Your body needs sleep, Ki. Consistent, quality sleep. I've watched you the past few days. You stay up until you're exhausted, crash for a few hours, then do it again. That's survival mode. We're not in survival mode anymore. It’s time to thrive."
Her eyes had gone soft, listening. I continued.
