Page 15

Thor

A ll of me. That’s what she wanted. So I was going to show her.

My palm was slick with sweat as I guided Mandy down the narrow hallway of the cabin. The worn floorboards creaked under our weight, each step bringing us closer to the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor.

No one had ever been past that threshold. Not my club brothers. Not my casual hookups. No one. My heart hammered against my ribs like a prisoner desperate for escape, and I wondered if she could feel my pulse racing through our linked hands.

"You're being mysterious," she said, her voice light but curious.”I kinda thought we were just going to . . . you know, get down to it.” She was still in her bra and panties, and I had to keep stopping myself from staring at her perfect body.

I swallowed hard. "Almost there."

We stopped at the door, solid oak with a simple silver lock. Nothing special to look at, nothing that would make anyone think twice about what might be behind it. That was the point. I reached beneath my shirt collar and pulled out the silver chain I always wore—the one everyone assumed carried dog tags or some other macho bullshit. The small silver key dangled from it, catching the light.

"You wear a key around your neck?" Mandy asked, her green eyes widening slightly.

I nodded. "Every day. For years."

My fingers trembled as I removed the chain from my neck. The key felt unnaturally heavy in my palm, weighted with significance rather than metal. I'd carried this secret for so long that sharing it felt like cutting open a vein.

"There's something I need to show you," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "Something no one else has ever seen."

Mandy's eyes locked with mine. "You can trust me, Thor."

"I know." And I did know. That was the crazy thing. I'd known her for such a short time, but deep down inside I felt something.

She was my forever girl.

I took a deep breath and slid the key into the lock. The mechanism clicked softly, and I pushed the door open, revealing what lay beyond. I didn't enter, just stood in the doorway.

The room was bathed in warm amber light from vintage lamps with stained glass shades. Unlike the rest of my house with its masculine, spartan decor, this space was different. Handcrafted wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with classic children's books arranged by color and size. Vintage teddy bears in hand-stitched outfits sat in careful arrangements—not the cheap carnival prize kind, but high-quality, collectible ones with detailed features and soft, premium fur. In one corner sat a reading nook with a plush oversized chair big enough to hold my frame comfortably, with a handmade quilt draped over it—something I'd found at an estate sale and restored myself, though I'd never admit that to my brothers.

A low cabinet displayed premium art supplies: colored pencils, markers, and paints, all neatly arranged by shade. A wooden train set, carefully restored and polished to a warm glow, circled a child-sized table. Everything was meticulously clean, lovingly maintained. Everything was waiting.

In the center of it all was a large, soft area rug with a pattern of stars and moons that I'd special ordered from a craftsman three states away.

Mandy stood frozen beside me, her breathing shallow. I couldn't speak. My throat had closed up tight, like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. I'd never felt so exposed, so fucking vulnerable, not even when I'd taken bullets for the club.

She stepped into the room past me, her movements slow and reverent. I remained rooted in the doorway, watching her explore. She touched nothing at first, just looked. Then her fingers reached out to brush against the soft fur of a teddy bear dressed as a motorcycle rider—one I'd custom ordered and never showed a soul.

"Thor . . ." she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

I cleared my throat. "I built this over the years. Piece by piece." My voice sounded strange to my own ears, stripped of the gruff authority I maintained with everyone else. "Waiting for someone I could trust with . . . this side of me."

The words hung in the air between us. I'd never said them aloud before. Had never admitted, even to myself, that I was waiting for someone specific, someone who would understand.

Mandy turned slowly, taking in every detail. Her eyes lingered on a shelf containing coloring books and a box of brand-new crayons still sealed in their package. Then she noticed the doorway to the connected bathroom, where the edge of a large clawfoot tub was visible. Her gaze finally returned to me, and I saw tears glistening in her eyes.

"Is this . . . for me?" she asked, her fingers brushing the soft fur of the teddy bear again.

My chest tightened painfully. The question hit me like a physical blow because it was too close to the truth I'd never admitted. This room had been my secret, my sanctuary, but it had also been a dream. A place I'd created for a fantasy I never thought would materialize.

"It always was," I replied, the words scraping my throat raw. "Even before I knew you existed. I had faith that I would find you."

I watched the impact of my words on her face. The slight parting of her lips, the flush that rose to her cheeks. For a moment, I thought I'd said too much, gone too far. Then her eyes softened, and I saw understanding dawn across her features.

"You're a Daddy," she whispered, not a question but a revelation.

I nodded, unable to speak. The label had always felt both right and terrifying—a contradiction I'd never reconciled until this moment.

"And you knew somehow that I'm a Little." Her voice was filled with wonder.

"I hoped," I admitted. "There were little tells."

A small smile played at her lips at my unintentional pun. "Little tells," she repeated. "That's exactly what they are."

She moved further into the room, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books. "These are all in perfect condition."

"Never been read," I confirmed. "Not yet."

The unspoken implication hung between us. I'd been collecting, preparing, waiting for someone to read them to. Someone to share this with.

We stood in silence for a long moment, the magnitude of what we were sharing expanding to fill the space between us.

"Thank you," she said finally, her voice barely audible. "For trusting me with this."

I remained in the doorway, still unable to fully cross the threshold while she was there. As if entering the room with her would make this real in a way I wasn't sure I was ready for. As if the dream might shatter if I tried to grasp it too quickly.

"Not everyone at the club knows," I said. "Just Duke. And I think Tyson has me figured out. If the rest of them found out . . ." I didn't finish the thought. We both knew what was at stake. My reputation. My position. Possibly even my safety.

"Your secret is safe with me," she promised. Her eyes were clear and steady, no judgment in them. Just acceptance.

"And yours with me," I replied.

I stood rooted to the spot, watching as Mandy moved through my secret space with a reverence that made my chest tight. Her fingers trailed across everything—the spines of books, the soft fur of teddy bears, the polished wood of the train set I'd spent weekends restoring. She touched it all like she was reading braille, decoding the secret language of who I really was. Her copper hair caught the amber light as she moved, transforming it into living flame against the soft blues and greens of the room.

"You made this?" she asked, kneeling to examine the train set more closely. The wooden engine gleamed with multiple coats of hand-rubbed finish, each car perfectly detailed.

"Restored it," I corrected. "Found it at an estate sale. Some kid had loved it hard, then grown up and forgotten it in an attic." My voice roughened. "Took me six months of weekends."

She ran her finger along the track. "It's beautiful."

She picked up a coloring book from the shelf—one with intricate mandala patterns—and flipped through it. "Brand new," she murmured.

"Everything is." The admission felt heavy. I'd created this perfect space but never used it. Never allowed myself to fully inhabit it.

She returned the book to its exact position, then moved to the quilt draped over the reading chair. Her fingers traced the intricate pattern of stars and moons that matched the rug. "This is handmade."

"Found it damaged at a thrift store. Spent months repairing it." I didn't add that I'd done the work late at night, with a beer at my elbow and old records playing, when I was sure no one would call or drop by.

She turned to me, and I saw tears glistening in her eyes. "Thor . . ." She took a deep breath. "Do you know how extraordinary this is?"

I shifted uncomfortably, still in the doorway. "It's just stuff."

"No." She shook her head firmly. "It's not just stuff. It's a dream you've been building. Waiting." Her voice caught. "This is a whole world you've created."

The air between us felt charged with an electricity I couldn't name—not quite sexual, but intimate in a way that stripped me even more bare. She was seeing years of secret longing made physical in this room.

"I hoped I’d be able share it one day," I admitted. "But as time went on I figured it would just be . . . mine. My weird secret."

"Not weird," she said firmly. "Beautiful."

She crossed to the bookshelf and gently pulled out a well-worn copy of Winnie the Pooh. Unlike the pristine volumes surrounding it, this one showed signs of use. "This one's been read," she observed.

My throat tightened. "It was mine. From when I was a kid. The only thing I kept."

She held it carefully, as if it were made of glass. "Your mom read it to you?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Mandy replaced the book with the same care I would have used, aligning it perfectly with the others. Then she turned to face me, her eyes filled with an emotion I couldn't name.

"Why are you still standing in the doorway?" she asked softly.

I hadn't realized I was. My body remained frozen at the threshold, one foot in the hallway, one foot in the room. Caught between worlds. "I don't know," I answered honestly.

She moved toward me, her steps deliberate.

God, she was beautiful. Elegant. Perfect. Far too good for an old dog like me.

When she reached me, she didn't touch me immediately. Just looked up into my face, studying me with those clear green eyes that seemed to see everything.

"I don't usually mix this side of me with . . ." She gestured vaguely between us, indicating the crackling sexual tension that we both felt.

"Neither do I," I said roughly. I'd never had anyone to mix it with at all. The few women who had shared my bed had seen only what I allowed them to see—the tough biker with the skillful hands. Never this. "But maybe that's what makes us work. All of you, all of me."

She rose on her toes again, and this time when her lips met mine, there was nothing chaste about it. The kiss started soft but deepened quickly, her mouth open under mine, inviting me in. My hands found her waist, pulling her against me as the kiss evolved from delicate tenderness to something hungry and insistent.

I felt myself finally step fully into the room, crossing the threshold completely. With one hand, I reached back and closed the door firmly behind me, the lock clicking into place. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet room—a declaration. We were sealed in this space together now, this secret place that existed outside the normal world.

Mandy's arms wound around my neck, her body pressing closer to mine. I could feel the softness of her breasts against my chest, the heat of her. My hands slid down to her hips, then lower, cupping her ass and lifting her effortlessly. She made a small sound of surprise and pleasure as her feet left the ground, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively.

I carried her to the center of the room, our mouths still fused, her hands tangled in my hair. The soft rug cushioned my boots as I stood there, holding her, suddenly uncertain. This room had always been pure in my mind—a place of innocence and care. Not a place for the raw need currently coursing through my veins.

I broke the kiss, breathing hard, my forehead pressed against hers. "Not sure we should—"

"It's okay," she whispered, her fingers stroking my face, tracing the line of my beard. "I want this here. I want all of you, every part."

Her words unlocked something in me—permission to merge these separate selves into one whole person. The protector and the lover. The Daddy and the man.

She kissed me again, deep and demanding, her body moving subtly against mine. I felt the last of my hesitation crumble, replaced by a certainty that felt like coming home.

I lowered us both to the soft rug, laying her gently on her back, my larger body covering hers without crushing her. My hands, rough from years of mechanical work, moved to the clasp of her bra with surprising dexterity.

"These hands," she murmured, capturing one and bringing it to her lips. "So strong, but so gentle."

I watched her kiss my calloused palm, her eyes holding mine. "Only with you," I told her truthfully. The world knew Thor the enforcer—the man whose hands could break bones and bend metal. Only Mandy knew these same hands could tremble while turning the pages of a book.

I bent to press my lips to the swell of her breast, feeling her sharp intake of breath.

Her hands weren't idle, moving to the hem of my t-shirt and tugging upward. I helped her, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. Her fingers traced the tattoos that covered my chest and arms, following the intricate patterns with a focus that made my skin tingle.

"So beautiful," she whispered, exploring the inked skin. "Like a map of your life."

No one had ever called me beautiful before. Hot, sure. Sexy, yeah. Dangerous, definitely. But beautiful? Never.

Her breasts were perfect—not too large, but full, with pale pink nipples that hardened as the air hit them. I cupped one, feeling its weight in my palm, watching her face as I brushed my thumb across the sensitive peak.

Her back arched slightly, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Thor . . ."

Hearing my name from her lips in this context sent another surge of heat through me. I lowered my head, replacing my thumb with my mouth, drawing the hardened nipple between my lips and sucking gently. Her hands clutched at my shoulders, nails digging into muscle.

When we were both naked, I took a moment to simply look at her. Her copper hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose waves, the color vibrant against her pale skin. The curve of her waist flared to hips I could span with my hands. Between her thighs, a neatly trimmed patch of hair the same fiery shade as that on her head.

"Christ, you're perfect," I murmured.

She lowered her eyes, arms moving as if to cover herself. I caught her wrists gently.

"Don't hide from me," I said. "Not here. Not now."

She met my gaze again, vulnerability and desire mingling in her expression. "It's just . . . the way you look at me. Like I'm something precious."

"You are." The words came out rougher than I intended, raw with honesty.

I moved to the plush chair in the corner, pulling the handmade quilt from its back. With careful movements, I spread it on the carpet, creating a soft nest among the scattered toys and books. The juxtaposition should have felt strange—our naked bodies about to come together in a space designed for innocence—but somehow it felt right. As if these two parts of ourselves were always meant to merge.

I held out my hand to her. "Come here."

She placed her hand in mine, trusting me to guide her. I led her to our makeshift bed and gently laid her down, the quilt's soft fabric cradling her bare skin. Her hair spread across the patterned fabric like liquid fire, and for a moment, I just stared, committing the image to memory.

Then I joined her, my larger body covering hers carefully, supporting my weight on my forearms to avoid crushing her. The contrast between us was stark—her pale, smooth skin against my tanned, tattooed bulk. Her delicate frame beneath my muscled mass. I could have snapped her in two without effort, yet all I wanted was to protect her, pleasure her, cherish her.

"You're so small," I murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She reached up to trace the lines of my face, her touch gentle as a whisper. "And you're so big."

"Too big?" I asked, suddenly conscious of our size difference.

Her lips curved into a smile that was equal parts shy and wicked. "Perfect size."

I lowered my head to capture her mouth with mine, the kiss deep and thorough. Her arms wound around my neck, pulling me closer as our tongues tangled. I could feel her nipples hardening against my chest, the heat of her core against my thigh.

My hands explored her body with worshipful attention—cupping the weight of her breasts, thumbs brushing across sensitive nipples, tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. Each touch drew a different sound from her—sighs, whimpers, soft moans that went straight to my already aching cock.

I slid one hand between us, finding the wet heat between her thighs. She gasped as my fingers parted her folds, exploring gently, learning what made her breath catch and her hips rise to meet my touch.

"Thor," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Please."

"Please what, baby girl?" I asked, needing to hear her say it.

Her eyes, dark with desire, locked with mine. "I need you inside me. Now."

The naked want in her voice broke something loose in me. I positioned myself at her entrance, the head of my cock sliding through her wetness. With deliberate control, I began to push into her, watching her face carefully for any sign of discomfort.

There was a moment of resistance—she was tight, and I wasn't small—but then her body yielded, accepting me inch by inch. Her expression shifted from momentary discomfort to unmistakable pleasure as I filled her completely.

Once fully seated within her, I paused, giving her time to adjust and myself a moment to regain control. The sensation of her hot, tight channel surrounding me was almost overwhelming. I'd had plenty of women before, but none had fit me like this—like we were made for each other.

"You okay?" I managed, my voice strained with the effort of holding still.

She nodded, her hands sliding up my arms to my shoulders, nails digging in slightly. "More than okay. You feel . . ." She shifted her hips experimentally, drawing a groan from me. "You feel perfect."

I began to move then, slow, deep thrusts that had her gasping with each stroke. Her legs wrapped around my waist, changing the angle, allowing me to sink even deeper.

"Mine," I growled against her throat, the word bubbling up from some primal place inside me. I hadn't meant to say it—hadn't consciously thought it—but as soon as it left my lips, I knew it was true. This woman, with her copper hair and dual nature that matched my own, was mine. To protect. To cherish. To pleasure.

"Yours," she agreed, her voice breathless as she moved with me, our bodies finding a rhythm that built steadily in intensity.

The room filled with the sounds of our joining—the soft gasps and moans, the whispered encouragements, the rustle of the quilt beneath us, the slick sounds of our bodies coming together. In the amber light, beads of sweat glistened on her skin, making her look as if she were dusted with gold.

I shifted position slightly, changing the angle of my thrusts to hit the spot that made her back arch and her breath catch. Her fingers clutched at my shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks that I'd wear proudly tomorrow.

"Right there," she gasped. "Don't stop."

As if I could. The sight of her beneath me, lost in pleasure I was giving her, was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I maintained the rhythm, watching her face as she climbed higher, her inner muscles tightening around me with each stroke.

"That's it, baby girl," I encouraged, my voice rough with exertion and need. "Let go for me."

Her eyes flew open at the endearment, locking with mine. Something passed between us—a recognition, an acknowledgment of what was happening not just physically but emotionally.

"Thor," she breathed, her voice taking on a different quality—higher, softer. The voice of her Little self.

The sound of it, here in this context, nearly undid me. My rhythm faltered for a moment before I regained control, driving into her with renewed purpose.

"I'm here," I told her, one hand moving to cradle her face. "I've got you."

Her expression was open, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with our physical nakedness. She was showing me her true self—all of her, the professional accountant and the Little girl, merged into one whole person in my arms.

"Close," she gasped, her body tightening around me. "So close."

"Me too," I admitted, feeling the familiar pressure building at the base of my spine. "Together."

I slid one hand between us, finding her clit with my thumb, circling it in time with my thrusts. Her reaction was immediate—a sharp cry, her back arching off the quilt, inner muscles clamping down on me.

"Thor," she cried again, her voice rising in pitch. And then, as her climax crashed over her, the word that shattered my control completely: "Daddy!"

The sound of that word on her lips, in that moment, hit me like a physical blow. Heat exploded through me, my vision blurring as my own release tore through me with unexpected violence. I buried myself to the hilt one final time, spilling inside her with a hoarse shout of her name.

For several long moments, I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel the aftershocks of the most intense orgasm of my life. Beneath me, Mandy trembled with her own residual pleasure, her arms still locked around me as if afraid I might disappear.

When I could finally form coherent thought again, I carefully shifted my weight to avoid crushing her, but didn't withdraw from her body. Not yet. I wasn't ready to break that connection.

We lay there for a while, still joined, trading soft kisses and gentle touches as our breathing returned to normal. The amber light bathed us in warmth, creating a cocoon that felt separate from the rest of the world. Here, there was no MC, no accounting firm, no roles to play or appearances to maintain. Just us, stripped bare in every way possible.

Eventually, I had to withdraw from her body, both of us gasping softly at the separation. I didn't go far, though, gathering her against my side, her head resting on my chest, my arm wrapped securely around her.

"That was . . ." she began, then stopped, apparently unable to find the right word.

"Yeah," I agreed. "It really was."

Her finger traced patterns on my chest, following the lines of tattoos she could probably barely see from her position.

She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with serious eyes. "Why me?"

It was a fair question, but one I didn't have a simple answer for. Why her, indeed? Why had this woman—a buttoned-up accountant who'd stumbled into my world through a professional consultation—triggered something in me that decades of living had not?

"Because you see me," I said finally. "All of me. Not just the enforcer. Not just the mechanic. Not just the lover. All of it."

She nodded, understanding. "And you see me. The accountant. The woman. The Little." She smiled, a small, private expression. "All of me."

I pulled her down for another kiss, this one soft and lingering. When we parted, I saw in her eyes the same wonder I felt—the amazement of finding someone who accepted every facet of who we were.

A protective urge surged through me, different from the fierce guardianship I felt for my brothers, softer but no less powerful. With careful movements, I gathered her in my arms and stood, cradling her against my chest as if she weighed nothing.

"Where are we going?" she murmured, her voice drowsy and satisfied.

"Taking care of you," I replied, carrying her toward the adjoining bathroom door.

Her head nestled against my shoulder, trusting and pliant. This side of her—soft, yielding, vulnerable—sparked something primal in me. Not sexual desire, though that remained a steady undercurrent, but the need to protect and nurture.

I nudged the bathroom door open with my foot, revealing the space beyond. Like the main room, I'd designed this bathroom with meticulous care, though I'd never used it as intended until now. The centerpiece was a deep clawfoot tub, large enough to accommodate my frame comfortably—or both of us together. The walls were painted a soft blue-gray, the fixtures gleaming brass that I'd polished myself. Plush towels in pastel colors were stacked neatly on open shelves, alongside glass bottles containing bath salts and oils I'd researched and purchased with embarrassing thoroughness.

Mandy's eyes widened as she took it all in. "This is beautiful."

I set her down carefully on the fluffy bath mat, keeping one arm around her waist to steady her. "Let me run you a bath."

She watched as I leaned over the tub, adjusting the taps until the water ran warm but not too hot. I selected a jar of lavender bath salts from the shelf, measuring a careful spoonful into the flowing water. The scent rose with the steam, calming and clean.

"You thought of everything," she said, watching me test the water temperature with my wrist like I was preparing a baby's bottle.

I shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "Had a lot of time to plan."

When the tub was half full, I turned back to her. She stood naked and slightly shivering, arms crossed loosely over her chest—not in modesty after what we'd shared, but for warmth. I reached for her, guiding her to the tub's edge.

"In you go," I said softly.

She stepped into the water with a small gasp of pleasure, sinking down until the water reached her chest. Her hair floated around her shoulders, copper tendrils darkening as they absorbed moisture.

I knelt beside the tub, rolling up my sleeves. She raised an eyebrow.

"You're going to wash me?"

"That's the plan," I confirmed. "Unless you'd rather I didn't."

A slow smile spread across her face. "No, I'd like that. Very much."

I reached for a soft washcloth and a bar of handmade soap with bits of lavender embedded in it. Dipping both in the warm water, I worked up a gentle lather and began with her shoulders, drawing the cloth across her skin in slow, deliberate motions.

She sighed, tension visibly draining from her muscles. "That feels amazing."

"Good." I continued my ministrations, washing her back, her arms, her chest with careful attention. There was nothing sexual in my touch now, though admiration remained. This was about care, about tending to her needs after the intensity of our connection.

When I reached for a bottle of shampoo, she tilted her head back without prompting, eyes closed in trust. I wet her hair carefully, then massaged the fragrant shampoo into her scalp with firm, circular motions. A small moan of pleasure escaped her lips.

"Your hands are magic," she murmured.

I smiled, though she couldn't see it with her eyes closed. "So I've been told."

"Cocky," she replied, but there was no heat in it. Just contentment.

I rinsed her hair thoroughly, shielding her eyes with one hand to keep soap from running into them. Then I applied conditioner, working it through the long strands with my fingers. Throughout it all, she remained relaxed and pliant, occasionally making small sounds of appreciation.

When she was clean and relaxed, I helped her stand and step out of the tub, then wrapped her in the largest, softest towel I owned. I dried her with the same care I'd used washing her, patting rather than rubbing, mindful of her sensitive skin.

"You're good at this," she observed as I gently toweled her hair.

"I’m glad you think so. Because I want to do this a lot .”

She smiled. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“It’s not what you did. It’s who you are.”

The smile on her face was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

When she was dry, I wrapped the towel around her and secured it. "Wait here. Got something for you."

I moved back into the main room, heading for the cedar chest at the foot of the small daybed in the corner. Opening it released the scent of cedar and lavender—the sachets I'd placed inside to keep the contents fresh. I removed the item I sought: a soft, pink onesie made of premium fleece, still with its tags attached.

I returned to the bathroom, holding it up for her to see. Her eyes widened, then filled with tears.

"You have a onesie?" she whispered, reaching out to touch the fabric with reverent fingers.

"Bought it six months ago," I admitted. "Saw it online. Couldn't not buy it." I didn't add that I'd spent nearly an hour staring at the screen before hitting the purchase button, or that I'd tracked the package obsessively until it arrived, then hidden it immediately in the cedar chest.

She let the towel drop, standing naked and vulnerable before me. But something had shifted in her demeanor—a subtle change in her posture, her expression. She looked younger somehow, more open. I recognized it immediately: she was slipping into her Little space.

"Is it for me?" she asked, her voice higher, softer than her normal speaking tone.

"It is now," I told her, unzipping the front. "Arms up."

She obeyed without hesitation, raising her arms over her head. I guided the soft material over her body with care, helping her arms through the sleeves, pulling it up over her shoulders. The pink fleece enveloped her like a hug, the fabric draping softly over her curves. I zipped it up the front, securing her in its warmth.

The change in her was immediate and profound. Her entire body seemed to relax, her face softening into an expression of pure contentment. She looked down at herself, hands stroking the soft material covering her arms, then back up at me with a smile that hit me square in the chest.

"It's so soft, Daddy," she said, her voice definitely in Little space now.

"Only the best for my princess," I replied, finding my own voice had gentled to match hers.

I took her hand and led her back to the main room. Guiding her to the plush reading chair in the corner, I settled into it first, then drew her onto my lap. She came willingly, curling against my chest like she belonged there. I reached for the quilt and wrapped it around both of us, cocooning us in warmth.

"Comfortable?" I asked, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She nodded, snuggling closer. "Mmm-hmm."

I reached to the shelf beside the chair, selecting the well-worn copy of Winnie the Pooh—my childhood book, the only thing I'd brought to this room from my past. The spine cracked slightly as I opened it, the pages yellowed with age but still intact.

"Would you like me to read to you?" I asked.

She nodded again, her finger reaching out to trace the illustration on the first page. "Please."

I cleared my throat and began in a voice softer than any of my brothers would have believed possible from me: "Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin."

Mandy sighed happily, nestling closer against my chest. I continued reading, the familiar words bringing back flashes of memory—my mother's voice, a time before everything went wrong, safety and comfort I'd spent decades trying to recapture.

"He's fond of Pooh," I read. "So am I," I added in an aside, pressing another kiss to her head.

She yawned, her body growing heavier against mine as relaxation claimed her. I kept reading, my voice a low rumble in the quiet room. The story of the silly old bear and his friends filled the space between us, creating a bubble of peace I'd never thought possible.

By the time I reached the end of the first chapter, Mandy's breathing had deepened into the rhythm of sleep. Her weight against me was trusting and complete, her face peaceful in repose. I closed the book quietly but didn't move to put it away, not wanting to disturb her.

Instead, I sat there, cradling her against me, marveling at how perfectly she fit in my arms, in this room, in my life. After so many years of building this space—collecting, arranging, preparing—it had finally found its purpose. My heart had finally found its home.

From the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, I heard the buzz of a phone—hers, receiving a message. I glanced at it briefly, seeing the screen light up with a notification, but made no move to check it. Whatever it was, it could wait until morning. This moment—her asleep in my arms, safe and content—was too precious to interrupt.

As I held her, I realized with startling clarity that I would do anything to protect this newfound peace—to protect her, this woman who had somehow unlocked parts of myself I'd kept hidden for so long. The thought should have terrified me, this sudden, fierce attachment. Instead, it settled into my chest like a missing puzzle piece finally found.

The phone buzzed again, persistent in the quiet room. Tomorrow, we would have to face the outside world again—her job, my club, all the complications that came with our separate lives. But for tonight, in this room that existed outside time and expectations, we had found something rare and perfect.

I adjusted the quilt around her, ensuring she was warm and secure, then settled back in the chair, prepared to hold her through the night if necessary. The message could wait. The world could wait. Right now, there was only this—Mandy sleeping in my arms, the lingering scent of lavender in her hair, and the knowledge that after years of searching, I'd finally found something worth protecting at any cost.