Page 37

The words sink into the silence between us like they’ve always belonged there—low and irrevocable, like something that reshapes the space around us. My breath stutters, and without meaning to, I lean just slightly closer—drawn by the gravity of his claim.

He holds me there for a beat longer.

My bare legs against his jeans. My chest rising slowly under the weight of his flannel. His hands warm at my waist.

I feel it in him—the tension.

Not directed at me.

Not even fully in the room.

Just coiled.

Like something’s waiting.

But he doesn’t speak it.

He just presses a kiss to my temple, soft and reverent, and says, “Come on, baby.”

I follow.

He guides me gently through the hall, one hand resting low on my back. The other is never far from mine.

The living room is dim, the fire still glowing low in the stove.

The couch is already turned down from earlier, quilt draped over one end, the pillows a little mussed.

He sits first.

Then opens his arms.

I don’t hesitate.

I climb into his lap, legs folding beside him, chest to chest.

He wraps the quilt around us both.

His hand slides under the flannel at my back, just to rest there.

Not to touch.

Not to move.

Just to feel me breathing—his hand, warm and steady, anchoring me like a quiet promise.

I lay my head on his shoulder. Let my fingers curl into his shirt.

His hand strokes along my spine.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I’m yours, baby. I always have been.”

A beat.

Then softer, almost reverent:

“I’m your Daddy.”

The words don’t just land. They unravel something deep in me.

A breath escapes me, shaky and sharp, and I feel myself soften in his arms, all at once too full and too bare. My chest stings with the force of it, with how much I believe him. With how much I need it.

I press my face tighter into his shirt, breathing in the scent of cedar and safety and him. My fingers curl hard into the flannel. My throat works around the ache, and it’s not fear. Not shame.

Just release.

A letting go so complete, it steals my breath.

And for a long, quiet while, we just stay like that.

He doesn’t rush me to sleep.

Doesn’t say anything more.

Just lets the firelight flicker over our skin while the night gathers at the windows.

And even though I don’t know what’s coming—

I know this.

This is real.

And it’s mine.

It happens gradually.

As the fire crackles low and my breathing steadies against his chest, I start to come back.

Fully.

Out of the haze.

Out of the softness that had me floating.

And I feel it.

Not in his arms.

They’re still strong. Still steady. Still holding me like I’m the most important thing he’s ever carried.

But in his gaze.

The way it lingers on me longer than usual.

The way he sees me, yes—but also… soaks me in.

I tilt my head, just enough to look up at him.

He doesn’t glance away.

Doesn’t pretend.

Just watches.

Soft, but unshakable.

Like he’s holding something heavy behind his eyes.

Something that isn’t for me to carry—but that touches me all the same.

My voice is small when it comes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

His thumb strokes along my hip, beneath the quilt. Not suggestive. Just grounding.

“You’re being so gentle,” I say, quieter now. “Like you’re… memorizing me.”

And then—

His voice.

Low.

Grounded.

“Because I am.”

And I feel it—that quiet reverence in his voice, like a thread of heat winding low through my belly. It settles in my chest, not like a shock, but like recognition. Like something I’ve waited my whole life to hear.

The air stills around us, the heat of the fire fading beneath the sudden weight of his gaze.

“I’ve got something to do tonight,” he says. “And I need to hold this in my hands before I go.”

My throat tightens.

But I don’t ask.

I don’t press.

I just lean in.

My hands come up to his face, framing his jaw, my thumbs brushing lightly over the stubble there.

I press a kiss beneath his ear. Gentle. Sure.

Then whisper it:

“Then hold me more.”

His breath shudders.

He gathers me tighter, shifts slightly, adjusting us without a word. and cradles the back of my head with one large, reverent hand.

“Mine,” he murmurs again, low against my temple. Like a mantra, like it's everything. I press closer, my nose brushing the column of his throat.

We settle deeper into the cushions, him behind me now, spooned close.

My legs tangled with his.

His hand strokes up my thigh—slow, warm, claiming.

Not to start anything.

Just to stay.

And his voice—

Right against my skin.

“You’re everything to me, little one. And nothing’s ever going to touch you. Not while I’m breathing.”

His arms tighten around me as he says it, like the promise isn’t just spoken but lived, held, woven through his body into mine.

His vow lands with the weight of something sacred, threading through my ribs like armor—solid, unshakable.

My breath catches, chest tight with something vast and unspeakable.

I curl a little deeper into him, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like an anchor, holding on to that vow like it's the only truth that matters.