Cleo

O h my god.

The smell was SO GOOD.

It pulled me out of sleep so gently and beautifully that for once, I didn’t even mind waking.

Coffee. Eggs. Bacon.

My stomach clenched with want and I let out a low, slow groan of hunger.

Three days. Three days of waking up in Dex's bed—he'd insisted after that first night on the couch, said his back couldn't take the torture and I needed proper rest. Three days of a comfortable domestic routine that was rebuilding something fundamental inside me, brick by careful brick.

I stretched under the covers, marveling at the softness.

Thread count had never mattered before, but now I understood why people paid attention to these things.

The sheets smelled like him—leather and soap and something musky that made me burrow deeper into the pillow.

Safe. That's what his scent meant to me.

Safe and cared for and worth the effort of real breakfast.

Through the cracked bedroom door, I could hear him moving around the kitchen. The sizzle of something hitting a hot pan. The clink of plates being set out.

It sounded like heaven.

The routine had formed without discussion, falling into place like it had always existed.

Morning coffee together before he left for club business—him reading through messages on his phone while I nursed my mug and tried not to stare at how his jaw worked when he concentrated.

Then he'd leave with strict instructions about lunch ("Noon, Cleo.

Whether you're hungry or not.") and I'd spend the morning on his laptop, firing off job applications that went nowhere.

Lunch at noon. Every day. No exceptions.

The first day, I'd tried to skip it, too anxious about using his food to eat when he wasn't there. He'd called at 12:15, like he'd known, and stayed on the phone while I made a sandwich. "I can hear you chewing," he'd said, and I'd heard the satisfaction in his voice. "Good girl."

Those two words had done things to me I wasn't ready to examine.

Afternoons were for coloring if I needed it—and I always needed it, the familiar rhythm of filling in careful patterns the only thing that quieted the anxiety about money and jobs and the Serpents still hunting for me.

He'd come home to find me cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by pencil shavings, and never said a word except to remind me to stretch my back.

Dinner together at six. Always. Even when club business ran late, he'd text to say he was on his way, to wait for him.

We'd eat whatever he cooked—and Christ, the man could actually cook, not just heat things up—while he asked about my day like my handful of rejection emails mattered as much as whatever crisis he'd been handling.

Then the careful dance of evening. Reading or watching something on his ancient TV, maintaining careful distance on the couch while awareness crackled between us like static. Until ten o'clock hit and he'd look at me with those steady eyes and say, "Bedtime, little one."

I'd protested the first night. "I'm not a child. I don't need a bedtime."

"You need structure," he'd said simply. "You need to know someone's paying attention. That someone cares enough to make sure you rest."

He'd been right. I slept better with an enforced bedtime than I had in years, knowing someone was standing guard between me and my tendency to spiral into 3 AM anxiety.

But there was more to it than just the routine. There was the conversation we'd had that second night, after I'd finally worked up the courage to ask about consequences.

"Sometimes I need to know there are boundaries," I'd admitted, face burning while I stared at my coloring book instead of him. "I never had boundaries when I was little. I think I’d like to experiment. It would mean that someone cared enough to correct me."

I'd expected him to think I was weird. Broken. Too much trouble. Instead, he'd set down his book and given me his full attention, those dark eyes serious and knowing.

"Consequences help you let go of the guilt," he'd said. Not a question but a statement of fact, like he understood the weight I carried around every small mistake. "Help you move forward instead of carrying mistakes around."

"Yes." The word had come out whispered, relieved. "Exactly that."

"What kind of consequences?" His voice had dropped lower, taken on that edge of authority that made my stomach flip. "What helps you let go?"

I'd pressed my colored pencil so hard it snapped, pink fragments scattering across the mandala I'd been working on. "I don't know. I've never . . . no one's ever cared enough to . . ."

"To correct you properly." Again, not a question. "To help you reset when you're spiraling."

The understanding in his voice had almost undone me. He knew. Somehow, he knew exactly what I needed without me having to spell it out in humiliating detail.

"We'll figure it out," he'd said finally. "When you're ready. When you need it. I'll help you let go of whatever you're carrying."

Part of me—the part that had been punishing myself since I was seven—desperately wanted to test those boundaries. To push until he had no choice but to follow through. To prove that he meant what he said about staying, about caring, about not letting me carry guilt around like stones in my pockets.

But I hadn't. Not yet.

The past three days had been too precious, too fragile. This bubble of safety and structure and someone actually giving a damn whether I ate lunch. I didn't want to risk it by being difficult.

The bedroom door opened fully, and Dex appeared with a mug of coffee, already doctored exactly how I liked it.

"Morning, baby," he said, voice still rough with sleep. "Breakfast in ten."

Baby. He'd been calling me that more often, the endearment slipping out like it belonged there. Like I belonged here, in his bed, in his routine, in his careful protection.

"Thank you," I said, accepting the mug with both hands.

He paused in the doorway, studying me with those too-knowing eyes. "You sleep okay?"

"Yeah." Better than okay. Safe and warm and held by the structure he'd built around me. "Really good."

Something soft crossed his features. "Good. That's good." Then, almost to himself: "You're doing so good, Cleo."

The praise hit like a physical touch, warming me from the inside out. I hid my smile in the coffee mug, but I knew he saw it anyway. Saw how desperately I needed the approval, the confirmation that I was worth the effort.

After he left, I lay back against the pillows and let myself feel it—this terrifying, perfect sense of being cared for. Of mattering to someone. Of rules and consequences and bedtimes that meant someone was paying attention.

S eventeen rejection emails.

I'd counted them twice, like the number might change if I was more careful.

Thanks for your interest, but . . . We've decided to go with someone else . . . The position has been filled . . .

Each one a little paper cut, until I felt like I was bleeding out through a thousand tiny wounds.

It was eight-thirty in the evening, and I’d had enough of worrying about employment for the day.

A coloring book called to me from the coffee table, and I grabbed it like a lifeline.

Maybe if I could just get the right shade of blue in this section, maybe if I could stay perfectly in the lines, maybe tomorrow someone would agree to give me a job.

My hands shook as I spread out the pencils, organizing them by color family. Control what you can control.

Dex looked up from his book—some biography of a motorcycle designer—and watched me settle onto the floor. He didn't say anything, but I felt his attention like a weight. Cataloging. Calculating. Waiting.

I colored, lost to the world.

Nine-thirty crawled by. Nine forty-five. Nine fifty-five.

At ten sharp, he closed his book with deliberate precision. "Bedtime, little one."

The words hit like they did every night—warmth and irritation tangled together until I couldn't separate them.

Little one.

I loved when he called me that.

"I'm not tired yet." I kept my eyes on the coloring book, pressing the purple pencil harder than necessary. "Think I'll color for a bit."

The silence stretched like taffy. I could feel him studying me, could practically hear the gears turning in his head. Assessing. Deciding.

"Bedtime's ten, little one. We talked about this." His voice had shifted, taken on that edge of authority that made my stomach flip. "Rules don't change because you're having a bad day."

My hand stilled on the page. He knew. Of course he knew. He'd probably seen me counting the rejection emails, probably noticed how I'd pushed my dinner around my plate instead of eating properly.

"I know." I selected a different pencil, forest green this time. "But I'm an adult. I can decide when I'm tired."

The words tasted like defiance, sharp and electric on my tongue. This was it—the test I'd been building toward for three days. The push to see if he'd push back or fold like everyone else when I became inconvenient.

"Cleo."

Just my name, but the way he said it made every nerve ending snap to attention. Warning wrapped in velvet, the kind of tone that said I was skating on thin ice and he could hear the cracks forming.

"Please don't make me repeat myself."

God, that voice. Firm and unyielding and absolutely certain that his word was law in this space. My hand trembled, sending the green outside the lines. The mistake made my chest tight with anxiety, but I kept coloring. Had to keep coloring. Had to know what happened when I pushed too far.

"I said I'm not tired." My voice came out smaller than intended, but I lifted my chin anyway. "You're not actually my—"

I bit off the word before it could escape. My what? My Daddy? My Dom? My anything? We'd kissed once and danced around the edges of what this could be, but we hadn't put names to it. Hadn't made it real.