Page 19 of Daddy Knows Best

He stopped walking, turning to face me fully. Behind him, the water reflected navigation lights in endless ripples.

"Emily." Just my name, but weighted with feeling. "Do you know what I thought during our first session?"

I shook my head, caught by the intensity in his eyes.

"I thought: this woman is going to destroy me." His free hand came up to cup my cheek. "Not professionally, though that was certainly a risk. But personally. The way you walked in already apologizing, your honesty about the shopping and the debt and the fear—I knew I was in trouble."

"That doesn't answer—"

"I'm not worried you'll be too much," he interrupted gently.

"I'm worried I've already shown you I can't maintain appropriate boundaries where you're concerned.

That every time you needed correction, needed guidance, needed to be held accountable—it was never clinical for me.

Never just about behavioral modification. "

My breath caught. "What was it about?"

"Protection." The word came out rough. "This desperate need to keep you safe from yourself.

To be the structure you couldn't build alone.

Do you know how many nights I reviewed your files, looking for better interventions?

How many times I had to talk myself out of calling to check on you between sessions? "

"But that's your job—"

"No." His thumb stroked my cheek. "My job was to maintain professional distance.

Provide tools. Let you succeed or fail on your own.

I couldn't do it. Every time you spiraled, I took it personally.

Every victory felt like mine too. That's not therapeutic best practice, Emily. That's something else entirely."

We started walking again, but slower now, bodies angled toward each other like satellites finding orbit. The boardwalk curved ahead, leading to the old lighthouse sculpture—bronze and verdigris, a monument to ships that never came home.

"I used to think wanting things was the problem," I said quietly.

"Like if I could just stop wanting, I'd be fixed.

But then you showed up with your rules and your careful hands and your voice that made me feel safe, and I wanted worse than ever.

Wanted you. Wanted to be good for you. Wanted to earn every 'good girl' like they were gold stars for my soul. "

"Emily—"

"I'm scared," I admitted, the words scraping my throat.

"Scared that without the therapy structure, you'll see that I'm just a mess who can't control her impulses.

Who climbs into laps and buys things she can't afford and calls her therapist Daddy because she doesn't know how to be normal about anything. "

We'd reached the lighthouse sculpture, its bronze surface worn smooth by decades of hands seeking wishes. The artist had captured the moment of illumination—light bursting from the tower to guide lost souls home.

Nate turned me to face him, both hands framing my face now. Behind him, the city sparkled like a promise.

"You're not a mess," he said firmly. "You're human. Complex and impulsive and brave enough to ask for help. Do you know how rare that is? How many people suffer in silence rather than admit they need structure?"

"But—"

"No. Listen." His eyes held mine, storm-gray in the lamplight. "I don't want normal. I want the woman who wears bee socks. Who drew her monster with crayons and faced it head-on. Who trusted me enough to be vulnerable, to submit, to let me help carry what was too heavy alone."

Tears pricked my eyes. "That's therapy Emily. What if real Emily disappoints you?"

"Impossible," he said simply. "Because they're the same person.

The woman who ate honey dessert while I played footsie with her socks?

Who teased me mercilessly about my incredible music taste?

That's also the woman who I’ve seen at her lowest, who took correction with grace, who's standing here brave enough to voice her fears. All you, Emily. All mine."

The possessiveness in that last word undid me. I swayed toward him, and his hands steadied me, sliding from my face to my shoulders.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, formal even now. "Here, in public, where anyone could see?"

"Please," I whispered.

He leaned down slowly, giving me time to change my mind. But I rose on my toes to meet him, impatient for the connection. Our lips met softly at first, testing. Then his hand slid into my hair, angling my head, and the kiss deepened into something that tasted like promises.

I pressed closer, feeling the solid warmth of him through cotton and denim. His other arm wrapped around my waist, holding me steady as the world tilted. This was declaration. Ownership. A claim staked in full view of the harbor and the city and anyone who cared to look.

When we finally broke apart, I was breathing hard, lips swollen, completely uncaring that we'd just made out like teenagers by a tourist attraction. Nate looked equally wrecked, his careful control scattered to the wind.

"Okay?" he asked, thumb stroking my cheek.

"Better than okay." I leaned into his touch. "Although maybe we should invest in chapstick if we're going to keep doing that."

His laugh rumbled through his chest. "Noted. I'll add it to my spreadsheet."

"Please tell me that's a joke."

"Maybe one day you’ll get to see my spreadsheet. It’s impressive."

I poked his ribs, making him squirm. "Terrible. You're terrible."

"And yet you're still here."

"And yet I'm still here," I agreed, marveling at the truth of it. Still here, still his, still becoming whoever Emily-and-Nate would grow to be.

The lighthouse beam swept over us, bronze light blessing whatever came next.