For a moment, we hung suspended. His hands on my face, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest, the world narrowed down to just us on this bike in the middle of traffic.

I thought he might kiss me. Thought he might rip our helmets off and claim my mouth right here with half of Ironridge watching.

Then a car laid on its horn right behind us, long and angry, and the spell shattered.

Dex jerked back like he'd been slapped. His hands fell away, and the loss of contact felt like losing gravity. Without a word, he faced forward and fired up the engine. The bike lurched into motion, and I had to grab him to keep from sliding off.

B ack in Dex's apartment, every surface felt like a live wire. The couch where he'd kissed me. The kitchen where he'd made cocoa. The very air we breathed, thick with everything we weren't allowed to want.

I stood in the middle of his living room like I'd forgotten how to exist in space. My skin felt too tight, every nerve hyperaware of him moving around the kitchen. The clink of plates. The hiss of the refrigerator seal. The careful way he kept his back to me, shoulders rigid with control.

"Temperature okay?" he asked without turning. "I can adjust the thermostat."

"It's fine."

Everything was fine.

Everything was completely fucking impossible.

He'd already noticed I'd been cold on the ride, had already started taking care of me in these small, devastating ways. Making sure I was comfortable. Fed. Safe. Everything a Daddy would do, while insisting he couldn't be mine.

When he finally turned, he held a plate of cut fruit and cheese, crackers fanned out like he'd taken time with the presentation.

Our fingers brushed as I accepted it, and the contact sent electricity racing up my arm.

His jaw tightened, but he didn't pull away as fast as he had been. Progress. Or torture. Maybe both.

"You need to eat." An order disguised as concern. "Your hands are shaking."

They were. Had been since he'd cupped my face at that red light, since he'd told me exactly what being his would mean. Rules and bedtimes and corner time and—

"Drink." He pressed a glass of water into my free hand, and that's when everything went wrong.

The glass was wet with condensation, my hands already trembling, my mind spinning with Daddy Doms and impossible futures. It slipped through my fingers like water itself, shattering against the hardwood in an explosion of sound and glittering fragments.

"Shit!" The panic hit instantly, familiar as breathing. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Hey." His voice cut through my spiral, firm but gentle. "Look at me."

But I couldn't. Could only stare at the spreading puddle, the scattered glass, the mess I'd made in his perfect space. "I'll clean it up, I'm sorry, I always do this, I always—"

"Stop." Command voice. The kind that reached past panic and found the frightened girl underneath. "Step back. Let me handle this."

"I made a mess." The words came out small, steeped in years of being too much trouble. "I'm always making messes, breaking things, I can't even hold a fucking glass—"

"Cleo." He stepped between me and the broken glass, blocking my view of the damage. "It's just a glass. You're okay."

"I'm not okay." The admission ripped out of me. "I'm a disaster. I break everything I touch. No wonder my dad left. No wonder—"

"Stop." Softer this time but no less firm. His hands found my shoulders, grounding me. "Back up. Sit on the couch. Now."

The order cut through the panic. I moved without thinking, muscle memory of following directions when everything felt too big.

He didn't touch the glass until I was safely away, then worked with calm efficiency.

Paper towels for the water. Broom for the big pieces.

Damp cloth for the fragments too small to see.

I watched him work, throat tight with something that wasn't quite tears. The easy way he handled my mess. The lack of anger or frustration. Like broken glasses were just a thing that happened, not a character flaw or cosmic punishment.

When he finished, he washed his hands thoroughly, then came to sit beside me on the couch. Not across from me in the chair this time. Right beside me, close enough that our knees touched.

"Give me your hands."

I extended them without thinking, and he took them in his. His thumbs rubbed circles on my palms, soothing and grounding. The touch made everything in me want to melt, to fall into him and let him catch all my broken pieces.

"We need to talk about rules," he said, and his voice had taken on that quality from earlier. Authority wrapped in velvet. "If you're going to stay here, even temporarily, you need structure, or you could spiral."

"Rules," I repeated, the word tasting like safety on my tongue.

"Rule one." His thumbs kept up their gentle rhythm. "You tell me when you're scared. No hiding, no pretending you're okay when you're not. Fear is not weakness. It's information."

I nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat.

"Rule two." His grip tightened slightly, emphasizing the point. "You eat regular meals. I'll cook, you eat. No skipping because you're stressed or sad or think you don't deserve it."

"I—" The protest died as his eyes met mine. Dark and serious and absolutely immovable on this point.

"Rule three." He paused, seeming to weigh his words. "You stop apologizing for existing. For taking up space. For having needs. You're allowed to be human, baby. You're allowed to make mistakes."

Baby. The endearment slipped out like it belonged there, and I saw him realize it at the same moment I did. His hands tightened on mine, but he didn't take it back. Didn't retreat into careful distance.

"Those are the rules?" I asked, voice barely a whisper. "That's all?"

"For now." Something flickered in his eyes—heat or promise or warning. "There could be more. If you wanted. If you needed."

The implication hung between us, heavy with possibility. More rules. More structure. More of whatever this was building between us, dangerous and perfect and absolutely terrifying.

"I want—" I started, then stopped. What did I want? Him? Safety? Rules and bedtimes and someone strong enough to catch me when I fell?

All of it. I wanted all of it.

"I know what you want," he said quietly. "I can see it in your eyes. Feel it in the way you respond to structure. You want someone to make you feel safe. Protected. Held."

"Is that so wrong?" The question came out cracked. "Is it wrong to want someone who won't leave?"

His face did something complicated—pain and desire and fierce protectiveness all tangled together. For a moment, I thought he might kiss me again. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I felt myself lean toward him without conscious thought.

Then he released my hands and stood abruptly. "You should rest. It's been a long morning."

The dismissal stung, but I recognized it for what it was—self-preservation. He was holding on by threads, and if one more snapped, we'd both fall into something we couldn't take back.

"Okay," I said softly. "I'll rest."

But as I curled up on his couch with the coloring book he'd bought me, I knew neither of us would be resting. We'd be thinking about rules and structure and the way he'd called me baby like it was my name.

And I’d be wondering what might happen if I broke a rule.