Page 17 of Daddy Knows Best

T hree days of nothing had turned me into a human refresh button.

The apartment didn't smell like failure anymore.

That was something, at least. Lemon cleaner had replaced the stale wine bouquet, and every surface gleamed with the kind of manic attention that came from having too much time and not enough information.

I'd even scrubbed the baseboards—who the hell scrubs baseboards unless they're losing their mind?

Sir Reginald watched from his perch on the windowsill, tail twitching with feline judgment. He'd forgiven me for the chaos, mostly, but still side-eyed the empty corner where wine bottles used to live.

"Don't look at me like that," I told him, hitting refresh again. "This is called being proactive."

He yawned, clearly unimpressed.

Every impulse purchase from that nightmare night sat boxed by the door, return labels printed and attached with the precision of someone proving they could adult.

Two hundred and thirty-six dollars already credited back to my cards.

Not much against the mountain of debt, but it was movement.

Progress. The kind of thing you did while waiting for your ex-therapist to decide if he wanted to be your . . . what?

Boyfriend seemed too small.

Daddy felt too big for daylight hours.

Another refresh. Another empty inbox.

I'd drafted approximately forty-seven texts to him, deleted them all. What did you say to someone who'd seen you at your absolute worst, cleaned you up, made you come, then vanished with promises to "sort things out"?

Thanks for the intervention, hope your license is okay, BTW I can't stop thinking about your fingers?

My phone sat face-down beside me, removed from temptation after I'd nearly called his office three times. Mrs. Delgado would have been kind about it, probably, but I couldn't handle her sympathy. Not when I was barely holding myself together with cleaning products and compulsive email checking.

The laptop screen blurred. I blinked hard, refusing to cry over an inbox. Three days was nothing. Administrative things took time. Resignation letters had to be filed, ethics boards consulted, professional boundaries properly demolished before personal ones could be built.

But what if he'd changed his mind? What if the cold light of professional consequences had made him realize I wasn't worth the career risk? What if—

A soft chime cut through my spiral.

New email. Subject line: "Status Update & Plans – N. Whitlow"

My heart forgot how to beat. Then remembered all at once, hammering against my ribs like it wanted out.

My finger hovered over the trackpad, suddenly terrified.

This was it. The verdict. Either permission to move forward or the polite kiss-off that would send me back to wine bottles and credit cards.

I clicked.

The email loaded in pieces—header first, then that familiar professional formatting that made my chest tight. But the words. Oh, the words were anything but professional.

"Resignation accepted by ethics board. I will arrive at 19:30 to return paperwork and—if you still consent—begin a very different relationship. Wear something that feels like 'you.' No panties necessary."

I read it three times before the last line registered. Then a fourth time just to see the winking bee emoji he'd actually included. Dr. Nathan Whitlow, former bastion of professional boundaries, had sent me an emoji. And instructions about my underwear.

A sound escaped me—half laugh, half sob. Sir Reginald's ears flattened at the noise, but I was already rolling off the bed, laptop abandoned in the rumpled sheets.

7:30 PM. I checked my phone—4:47. I had a whole two hours and forty-three minutes to become whoever 'me' was supposed to be.

My closet doors banged open, revealing the schizophrenic wardrobe of someone who'd never figured out her style. Professional blazers hung next to club dresses I'd worn twice. Thrift store finds mingled with impulse purchases still bearing tags. But his words echoed: something that feels like you.

Not the trying-too-hard wrap dress. Not the expensive lingerie that had already failed spectacularly. Something real. Something Emily.

My fingers found it buried in the back—a sunflower-print sundress from Goodwill, soft cotton worn to perfection by someone else's summers. Yellow flowers on white, buttons down the front, the kind of thing I wore on good days when I didn't hate my body.

The bee socks were already laid out on my dresser, waiting. Some things were inevitable.

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.

W hen his knock finally came, 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's shoulders, 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 looked intentional, 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?"

"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?"