Page 16 of Daddy Protector (Night Ops Daddies #1)

Cole

“They don’t make towns like this anymore,” I say, a broad smile on my face as I drop down through the gears and get ready to park. “Damn. I love it already.”

The gravel crunches under the tires as I pull the truck into the small parking lot of Millville, a cozy town nestled in the valley a few miles from the safe house.

The rain has finally eased, leaving a fine mist in the air and a slick sheen on the asphalt.

The town is like a postcard. Main Street lined with clapboard storefronts, their faded signs advertising hardware, baked goods, and antiques.

A barbershop pole spins lazily, its red and white stripes catching the gray light, while a few locals in flannel and boots shuffle along the sidewalk, umbrellas tucked under their arms ready for the next downpour.

The air smells of wet pavement and pine, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee drifting from a nearby café.

A bell jingles as someone enters the post office, and the distant hum of a delivery truck blends with the soft chatter of two women outside a flower shop, their laughter bright against the drizzle’s patter.

It’s quiet, unhurried, the kind of place where time feels like it’s paused, and I’m all there for it.

I’ve travelled the world with the Night Ops Guards and seen some amazing things. But put me in a town like this and I’m in heaven. I figure that Richie likes what he sees too, judging by the look of glee on his face – or maybe that’s just the delight at getting out of the safe house for a while.

“Come on, let’s go,” I say, unbuckling my belt and doing the same for a smiling Richie. “We’ve got groceries to buy.”

Richie hops out of the car, his hoodie zipped tight, Fizz’s head peeking from his backpack, and I follow, locking the doors with a beep. We head toward the grocery store, a squat building with a hand-painted sign that reads “Millville Market.”

Our boots splash through shallow puddles, and Richie’s eyes dart around, taking in the town with a mix of curiosity and excitement.

“Is this the kind of place you grew up in?” Richie asks, his voice light, almost teasing, as he sidesteps a cracked sidewalk tile.

I glance at him, then at the street, the question stirring memories I haven’t touched in years.

“Very similar,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “Small town, same kind of vibe… everyone knows everyone, and nothing much changes.”

My childhood feels like a ghost, distant, like it belonged to someone else. I grew up in a place like this, a nowhere town some might call it, with a general store, a diner, and fields that stretched forever.

I remember summer days on my bike, the taste of lemonade from my mom’s pitcher, the way the stars looked endless at night. It was simple, innocent, a world where danger was a scraped knee, not a sniper’s bullet.

But that boy is a stranger now, and so is that life.

The things I’ve seen—blood-soaked jungles, covert ops gone wrong, the faces of men like Carter who didn’t make it home—have carved me into something else.

My journey as a Night Ops Guard, starting in my twenties, took me a million miles from that innocence. I’ve staked out terrorists in rainforests, dodged landmines in desert convoys, watched brothers fall and enemies rise.

Each mission hardened me, sharpened me, until the kid who chased fireflies was buried under layers of discipline and duty.

I glance at Richie, his eyes bright despite the gray day, and feel a pang. He’s pulling me back, his trust, his fire, reminding me of something softer, something I thought I’d lost.

Fuck. Get a hold of yourself.

This is still business.

You’ve got a job to do.

The rain’s pause feels like a gift, the clouds parting to let a sliver of pale sunlight through, glinting off the wet street.

I shake off the weight of memory, deciding to lean into this moment with Richie.

He’s here, safe, and for now, that’s enough.

We reach the grocery store, the bell above the door jingling as I hold it open for him, and he flashes me a grin that warms me more than the fire back at the cabin.

As we step onto the sidewalk once more, bags of supplies in hand, Richie nudges me, his voice hopeful.

“Do you think it’s safe enough to visit a diner, Daddy?” Richie asks, his sweet smile looking radiant and full of hope.

The D-word, soft and trusting, hits me like it always does, a mix of pride and protectiveness swelling in my chest.

I smile, scanning the quiet street, my instincts sharp but eased by the town’s calm.

“Yeah, darling boy,” I say, my tone warm but measured. “We can hit the diner. But you might be surprised—it’s not just gonna be the two of us…”

I let the words hang, a cryptic tease, watching his eyes widen with curiosity, knowing I’ve got his attention as we head toward the diner’s sign swaying in the light breeze in the distance…

The diner’s bell jingles as I push open the door, holding it for Richie, who bounces in with a grin, his backpack slung over one shoulder, Fizz’s head peeking out.

The Millville Diner is everything you’d expect from a small town—red vinyl booths, checkered linoleum floors, and a jukebox in the corner humming a 90s pop tune.

The air smells of sizzling bacon, strong coffee, and syrup-soaked pancakes, mingling with the faint dampness of the day outside.

A waitress in a pink apron chats with a grizzled trucker at the counter, her laugh bright, while a family in a nearby booth clinks forks against plates, their kids giggling over crayons.

It’s warm, friendly, the kind of place where locals swap stories and strangers feel like they belong, and for a moment, the weight of our situation—Hunter, the threat, the safe house—feels a little less heavy on my shoulders.

Richie’s eyes light up as he spots the milkshake menu above the counter, a chalkboard listing flavors like strawberry, chocolate, and peanut butter swirl.

“Daddy, can I have a milkshake?” Richie asks, his voice bubbling with excitement, the word Daddy soft but deliberate, sending that familiar surge of pride through me.

I laugh, a low rumble, and nod.

“Go for it, baby boy. Pick your poison,” I answer. “I’ll stick to my usual though.”

Richie’s grin widens, and he orders a strawberry milkshake, practically vibrating with anticipation as we slide into a booth, the vinyl creaking under us.

I order pancakes for Richie, a triple espresso for me— what else?— and a side of bacon to share. The waitress, a woman with a kind smile and a bubbly nature jots it down and hustles off, leaving us in the booth’s cozy bubble.

Richie leans forward, his elbows on the table, a playful glint in his eyes.

“You’re not gonna steal my milkshake, are you, Daddy?” Richie teases, his tone flirty, testing the edges of our dynamic. “It’s so much nicer than your boring coffee!”

I raise an eyebrow, leaning back with a smirk.

“Depends,” I answer. “You gonna share those pancakes, or am I eating bacon alone?”

My voice is light, matching the boy’s energy, and he giggles, sticking out his tongue, a spark of his Little side shining through. It’s easy, like we’re just a man and his boy in a diner, not a Night Ops Guard and his mission objective hiding from danger.

Richie’s laugh, his trust, it feels good—too good, maybe—and I let myself sink into it, just for now.

The food arrives, a towering strawberry milkshake with whipped cream for Richie, a stack of fluffy pancakes dripping with syrup, and my espresso, dark and bitter.

The waitress sets down the bacon, winking at Richie.

“Don’t let him steal that shake, honey.” The waitress says as he laughs.

I shake my head, pretending offense as I sip my coffee.

Richie digs into his pancakes, then pauses, his milkshake straw still in his mouth, his eyes narrowing.

“What did you mean earlier, when you said it wouldn’t be just the two of us?” Richie asks, his voice curious, a hint of suspicion creeping in.

I laugh, leaning forward, keeping my tone cryptic.

“Patience, boy,” I say. “Eat your pancakes before they get cold.”

I nod at his plate, dodging the question, not ready to tip my hand just yet. Richie pouts, but it’s playful, and he munches a bite, slurping his milkshake with a contented hum that makes my chest warm.

Watching Richie, so sweet and carefree, his cheeks flushed as he savors his food, feels like being a real Daddy. Richie’s Little side is out, unguarded, and I’m his anchor, his protector, making this moment safe.

It’s perfect, but I know I can’t get lost in it.

There’s work to be done—Hunter’s out there, the threat’s closing in, and I’m a Night Ops Guard, not just Richie’s small town Daddy.

My eyes drift to the diner’s entrance, and I stiffen slightly.

Two men step in, their eyes scanning the room with a purpose that’s not small town casual…

Henry.

Kash too.

Night Ops Guards. Good men. The best .

And men who might just have the intel I need.

I keep my face neutral, but my focus sharpens, the mission pulling me back as I watch them approach. But my focused glare soon turns to something else as I can’t hold myself back any longer…

“Of all the diners in the world,” I say getting to my feet and warmly embracing Henry and then Kash, one after the other. “Well isn’t this just the big surprise.”

“Hell yeah,” Kash replies, his square jaw and slicked back black hair looking as immaculate as ever. “You know how much I love a diner. So when Henry told me that you might need some assistance, it would have taken Night Ops Guard high command to hold me back.”

“Don’t even joke about it,” Henry says, a note of caution in his voice. “If they knew we were here, they’d have some serious issues.”

“Even though we’re helping Hunter?” Kash asks. “Actually, don’t answer that. Night Ops Guard life is still a mystery to me sometimes and I’m eight years deep.”

The energy between the three of us is just like it always is. We might not be on an official mission together but the spark is still there. And speaking of sparks, I need to introduce Richie before he gets fed up listening to us and starts asking too many of his own questions…

“Men, this is Richie Selleck,” I say, taking a seat next to Richie as Henry and Kash squeeze into the booth on the opposite side. “He’s smart, he knows the world we work in. Don’t feel like you need to hold back. Richie isn’t a regular client.”

“Yup, no son of Hunter would be,” Henry says, a knowing look in his eye. “I’m guessing he’s all kinds of special…”

Fuck. He knows.

He can see it written all over my face.

Henry knows that I like Richie way more than I should…

“Less chat, more business,” I say, signaling to the waitress for another round of coffees and a fresh stack of pancakes.

“We’ve got a lot to get through and not enough time to do it.

Hunter thinks he can solve this problem on his own.

And who knows, maybe he can. But while he’s still in the middle of it, I think we owe it to him to give him a helping hand. ”

Henry and Kash both nod in total agreement.

“Once a Night Ops Guard, always a Night Ops Guard,” Henry says.

“Exactly,” I say. “Now let’s put a plan together…”

I shoot Richie a look and can see that he is listening intently.

He might be a Little, but I can see that he has very much switched into another gear right now.

His eyes are bright, his focus is intense – as far as Richie is concerned, he is part of the squad, and I’m not going to tell him otherwise.

I only hope that we can come up with something that gets us closer to figuring this mess out once and for all…