T he bookstore smelled like paper and possibilities, that particular scent of new books mixed with old wood that made my chest ache with nostalgia. The proprietor looked up from arranging a display of new releases, and her face brightened with genuine pleasure.

"Dex," she said, setting down a glossy hardcover. "Haven't seen you since you bought that stack of motorcycle repair manuals."

She was younger than I'd expected, maybe mid-thirties, with ink-stained fingers and the kind of eyes that missed nothing. Her gaze found me, took in the borrowed clothes and the way I stood just inside Dex's space, and something knowing flickered across her features.

"Sophia, good to see you. This is Cleo," Dex said, and there it was again—that protective hand on my back, like he couldn't help but claim me in small ways. "She's looking for work. She doesn’t have bookstore experience, but she’s a hardworking waitress who—"

"Oh honey." Sophia's expression went sympathetic. "I'd love to help, but I'm barely keeping this place afloat as it is. Between Amazon and the economy . . ." She gestured at the empty store. "I can't even afford to pay myself most months."

The disappointment hit harder than it should have. It was just another no in a lifetime of them. But something about the books surrounding us, the quiet peace of this place, made me want to belong here.

"Have you tried the diner on Fifth?" Sophia continued. "They're always looking for experienced waitresses."

"Worth a shot," Dex said, but his attention had already drifted to the shelves. His fingers trailed along spines with the reverence of someone who understood that books were more than paper and ink.

"Mind if we look around for a minute?" I asked, not ready to leave this sanctuary.

"Take your time." Sophia waved us toward the stacks. "Poetry's in the back corner, Dex. Got some new Bukowski in yesterday."

The surprise must have shown on my face because Dex's mouth quirked. "What? Bikers can't like poetry?"

"I didn't say that." But I followed him through the mystery section, watching him navigate the store with familiar ease. "Bukowski though? Really?"

"Sometimes you need someone who understands the ugliness." He pulled a slim volume from the shelf, thumbing through pages with careful fingers. "Who doesn't pretend the world is anything other than sharp edges and broken glass."

I thought about my father, about medical bills and burned vans and all the ways life could cut you open. "Yeah. I get that."

We browsed in comfortable silence, and I found myself stealing glances at him between the shelves. The way he handled each book like it mattered. How he actually read back covers instead of just skimming. When he caught me watching, heat flooded my cheeks.

"You're surprised," he said, not quite a question.

"A little," I admitted. "But in a good way. I love that you're not . . . what I expected."

Something shifted in his expression, pleasure mixed with wariness. “Not what you feared?”

“I guess.”

We left with promises to Sophia that we'd come back as customers. The morning sun felt too bright after the bookstore's gentle dimness. The walk back to his bike was short, but my mind raced with questions I didn't know how to ask.

Except I had to ask. Had to know.

"Last night," I said, stopping beside his Harley. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape. "When you saw my coloring books, Mr. Friendly . . . you didn't seem shocked. You just . . . knew what it meant."

His hands stilled on the handlebars. The leather of his jacket creaked as his shoulders tensed. For a long moment, I thought he wouldn't answer. That I'd pushed too hard, asked for too much.

"I've seen it before," he said finally, voice carefully controlled. "The regression to safer spaces. The need for comfort items. The way trauma makes you seek what you couldn't have when you needed it most."

"But it was more than that." I pressed forward even though every instinct screamed to retreat. "You knew exactly what to do. How to respond. Like you'd . . ." I swallowed hard. "Like you'd dealt with it before."

He turned to face me then, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. Intense. Careful. Weighing how much truth I could handle.

"I'm a Daddy," he said simply. Like ripping off a bandage. "Daddy Dom, I mean. The kind who takes care of Littles. Or at least I used to be."

The words hit like lightning, electricity racing down my spine.

I'd read about it late at night, hidden in private browsing tabs I'd immediately clear.

The idea of someone strong enough to create safety, patient enough to understand the need for softness in a hard world.

Someone who could see all the broken pieces and want to protect rather than exploit.

"A Daddy Dom," I repeated, and my voice came out breathy. Affected. "That's . . . that's what you are?"

"It's part of who I am." His jaw worked, choosing words carefully. "The need to protect, to provide structure and safety. To create space where someone can be vulnerable without being hurt."

My mouth had gone desert-dry. "And you've . . . you've done this before? Taken care of someone?"

A shadow crossed his features. "Yeah. I have. It didn't end well."

"But you still want—" I cut myself off, face burning. What was I asking? What did I think would happen here?

"Half the guys in the club are," he said, deflecting from the personal. "Comes with the territory, I guess. Protective instincts, need to take care of people. The lifestyle attracts men who want to be providers, protectors. Daddy Doms, whether they use the label or not."

The leather of his jacket whispered as he turned back to the bike. End of discussion, his body language said. But I caught the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckle grip on the handlebars.

"Get on, Cleo." His voice had gone rough. "We've got more stops to make."

I climbed on behind him, but everything felt different now. He was a Daddy. A Dom who understood what I needed maybe better than I did. Who'd bought me coloring books and made me cocoa and held me while I cried.

Who'd kissed me like he was drowning, then pushed me away like I was dangerous.

T he diner on Fifth Street took one look at my résumé—what little there was of it—and practically laughed us back onto the sidewalk. "We need experienced grill cooks," the manager said, not even pretending to be sorry. "Try the gas station on Third. They're always hiring."

For minimum wage. For graveyard shifts where tweakers tried to rob you twice a week. But I smiled and thanked him anyway, following Dex back to the bike with my pride in tatters.

This time when I climbed on behind him, my body knew exactly what to do. Thighs bracketing his hips, arms around his waist, chest pressed to his back like we'd done this a thousand times. Like I belonged here, holding onto a Daddy Dom who'd pushed me away but kept pulling me closer.

My mind wouldn't stop circling it. Daddy.

The word thrummed through me with every rumble of the engine.

He was a Daddy who made cocoa with real vanilla.

Who bought coloring books for a woman he barely knew.

Who kissed like possession and protection all tangled together, then ran like I'd burned him.

"You're thinking too loud." His voice crackled through the helmet comm, startling me. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

We were stopped at a red light, engine idling. Other bikes rumbled past, their riders glancing at Dex's patches with recognition. His hands flexed on the handlebars, tension radiating through his shoulders.

"I'm thinking about you," I said, and immediately wished I could swallow the words back. But they hung in the air between us, undeniable.

His whole body went rigid. The bike wobbled slightly, like my admission had physically unbalanced him. "Cleo . . ."

"I know you said we can't." The words tumbled out faster now, desperate to be heard before I lost my nerve. "But I can't stop thinking about last night. About how it felt when you kissed me."

A car honked behind us. The light had turned green, but Dex didn't move. Other vehicles streamed around us, drivers shouting obscenities, but he sat frozen. Then, without warning, he killed the engine.

"What are you—"

He twisted on the seat, turning to face me with movements too controlled to be calm. Through his helmet visor, I could see his eyes—dark and wild, hungry in a way that made my stomach clench. When he reached up to cup my face through my helmet, his hands shook.

"You don't know what you're asking for." His voice came out rough, shredded. "I'm not some nice guy who'll hold your hand and buy you flowers. I don't do things halfway."

"I'm not asking for halfway." My voice barely worked, trapped between his hands and his gaze.

"If we start this—" His thumb found the edge of my helmet, tracing where it met my jaw.

"If you let me take care of you the way I want to, there's no going back.

I'll want all of it. Every broken piece, every scared moment, every time you need to color or hold that bear or suck your thumb when the world gets too big. "

Heat flooded through me at his words. He'd seen it all. Understood it all. Wanted it all.

"I'll want to make rules," he continued, voice dropping lower. "Set bedtimes. Pick your meals. Give you corner time when you're bratty and rewards when you're good. I'll want to be your Daddy in every way that matters, and baby, I don't think you understand what that means."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at him through two layers of helmet plastic while my entire body lit up like a struck match.

"Maybe I don't want to go back," I whispered.