Chapter 7
Marie
I paced the worn rug in my living room, my bare feet catching on the edge every few steps. My lips still tingled. Hours had passed since I kissed him—since I kissed Dwight—and I couldn’t shake it. His steady hands on my waist, his breath warm and heavy against my cheek, the way his green eyes pinned me as if waiting for some unspoken permission.
I’d called him “Daddy.”
My stomach twisted, half mortified, half thrumming with something dark and electric. The word had slipped out so fast, so natural, like it had been sitting on my tongue for years, just waiting for someone like him to pull it free. Now? I didn’t know what to do with myself. My body wanted one thing; my brain was a damn mess.
"Stop," I muttered under my breath, dragging my fingers through my curls. Like that would help. Like telling myself to stop thinking about it would erase the heat running from my chest all the way down into my toes. I glanced at the clock glowing faintly on the wall. It was midnight. Small Falls was dead quiet outside, but inside me? There was a marching band playing a symphony of confusion and lust.
I grabbed my phone off the couch and stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over Rebekah’s name in my contacts. She’d get it. She’d have to get it. If anyone could talk me off this ledge—or shove me further over—it was her. I opened a text.
Sorry for the late message. You free to talk tomorrow? Kinda urgent.
The second I hit send, I tossed the phone onto the cushion like it burned me. My heart thudded harder than it should’ve. I wasn’t even going into detail yet, and still, my whole face felt like it was on fire.
I chewed my lip, glancing at the phone like it might bite back. Not ten seconds later, it buzzed.
Of course! Little League? Usual time?
I exhaled. Relief, or maybe anticipation. Either way, I typed back a quick Yes. Thanks, then shoved my phone facedown on the coffee table. Tomorrow. I just had to make it until tomorrow.
***
The following afternoon, I parked my car outside the little community hall we used for Little League meetings.
Inside, soft chatter filled the space, a mix of friendly voices and gentle laughter. The familiar sight of plushies lined up neatly on one of the tables made my shoulders loosen a bit. A couple of the other Littles were flipping through coloring books, comparing their pages. Someone else was testing markers on scrap paper, complaining about how the pinks were drying out too fast. It was all so normal, so easy. But I wasn’t here for casual today.
I stood near the doorway, scanning for Rebekah. My pulse picked up when I spotted her leaning against a table, a stuffed panda tucked under one arm while she talked animatedly with two others. Her strawberry blonde braid swung as she gestured with her hands, laughing at something they said. Lighthearted. Unbothered. I envied that right now.
"Hey, Marie!" One of the girls waved to me, smiling brightly.
"Hey," I replied, keeping my tone breezy, though my insides felt like they were tied in knots. I moved toward an empty chair, trying not to fidget too much, but my fingers played with the hem of my sweater anyway. I needed to wait, play it cool until the group naturally broke apart. No way was I spilling my guts in front of everyone.
After a while, the conversations shifted. People started packing up their things, some lingering by the snack table, others drifting toward the door. I caught Rebekah’s eye across the room. She tilted her head, her brow lifting slightly, curious.
"Becks," I said, barely above a whisper, motioning her over.
She didn’t hesitate. She handed the panda off to someone else and crossed the room, her boots clicking softly on the floor. "What’s up?" she asked, her voice low enough that no one else could hear.
"Can we . . . ?" I nodded toward the far corner, where a couple of cushioned chairs sat away from the main hub of activity. My throat felt tight. Saying it out loud was going to be a whole other level of hard.
"Sure," she said easily, reading whatever was written all over my face. She followed me to the corner, plopping into one of the chairs while I perched on the edge of the other.
"Okay," she said, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was concern there too. "You’ve got the look of someone who’s either about to confess murder or spill some really juicy tea. Which is it?"
"Well, I’m no murderer." My laugh came out shaky. "But . . . definitely the other thing. A tea spiller."
"Okay then, spill," Rebekah said, leaning forward, her eyes practically daring me to drop whatever bombshell I’d been sitting on. Her elbows rested on her knees, fingers steepled like she was some kind of therapist waiting to diagnose me.
I sucked in a breath, my heart hammering in my chest. "Dwight and I kissed."
Her mouth fell open. "What?" The word came out somewhere between a squeal and a gasp. She clasped her hands together like she might combust from secondhand excitement. "Wait. Hold up. Dwight? Like bakery Dwight ? Tall, grumpy, broody—" she made a vague gesture, like she was outlining his shoulders—"that Dwight? Dwight Wilkins ?"
"Yeah, that Dwight." My voice cracked, and I immediately regretted saying anything. But it was too late now; the floodgates were open, and Rebekah looked like she was settling in for the juiciest scoop of her life. “You cannot tell anyone.” I glanced around. “Especially not Lucy.”
"Shut. Up." She slapped a hand over her mouth, but her eyes were twinkling. "Okay, keep going. What happened? Where? When? Did he kiss you or did you kiss him? Details, Marie. I need details."
"Keep your voice down!" I hissed, glancing around. Nobody seemed to be paying attention, but my palms still felt clammy. I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. "It was last night. At the bakery. I—I don’t know how it even happened. One minute we were talking, and the next . . ." I trailed off, the memory of his lips brushing against mine sending a shiver down my spine. "He kissed me. It just . . . happened. "
Rebekah bounced slightly in her seat like she couldn’t contain herself. "And?! How was it? Was it fireworks? Butterflies? Or, like, awkward nose bumping?"
"Fireworks," I admitted, my cheeks burning. "But that’s not the crazy thing. The crazy thing is—" I swallowed hard. This was the part that had been gnawing at me all night. "I called him 'Daddy.'"
Rebekah froze mid-bounce, her eyes going wide. "You called him what ?"
"Shhh!" I smacked her arm lightly. "Why do you have to say it so loud?"
"Marie," she whispered, leaning in so close our noses almost touched, her grin devilish now. "You called him Daddy? Like, out loud? To his face? While kissing him?"
"Yes," I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "Kind of before. It just slipped out. I didn’t even think about it. And now he’s all weird and distant and saying stuff like ‘I’m not good for anyone’ and acting like I’ve ruined his whole life."
"Whoa, whoa, back up." Rebekah grabbed my wrists, pulling my hands away from my face so I had no choice but to look at her. "First of all, did he freak out when you said it? Like, did he pull away all horrified, or—?"
"Not at first," I admitted, my voice small. "Actually, I think he liked it. In fact, I think it’s what made him kiss me. But then after, he pulled back and started spiraling into this whole thing about how he’s got baggage and isn’t relationship material and blah, blah, blah."
"Classic deflection," Rebekah said with a knowing nod. "Textbook Daddy Dom move, honestly. Because he likes to be in control so much, he probably felt guilty about just kissing you like that, without being sure you were into it."
"Wait, what?" I blinked at her. "How can you be so sure he’s a Daddy Dom? What if it was just . . . I don’t know, a fluke?"
"Marie," she said, deadpan. "A man doesn’t just kiss you after being called Daddy unless he’s into it. Trust me, I’ve been around enough Doms to recognize the signs. So Dwight Wilkins is officially on my Daddy radar." She paused, tilting her head. "Though I gotta say, I didn’t see that one coming. He gives off more of a ‘lone wolf protector with a tragic past’ vibe than a ‘let me take care of my Little’ vibe."
"Please don’t tell anyone," I begged. "This has to stay between us. I don’t even know what I’m doing right now, let alone how to explain it to anyone else."
"Relax, your secret’s safe with me," Rebekah said, though her grin suggested she’d be teasing me about this for years to come. "But we need to talk about you . What do you want out of this? Do you actually want Dwight to be your Daddy, or are you just caught up in the moment because he’s hot and bakes really good bread?"
"Both?" I blurted before I could stop myself. Heat rushed to my face, and I fidgeted with the hem of my sweater. "I mean, yes, he’s ridiculously attractive. But there was something about the way he took control for that split second. It wasn’t just sexy—it felt . . . safe. Comforting. Like he knew that I wanted to kiss him. Like he could read me. I’m probably reading too much into it, but it feels like he could handle all the messy parts of me without running away."
"Okay, listen to me carefully," Rebekah said, leaning in like she was about to tell me how to rob a bank. Her voice dropped low, conspiratorial. "You need to figure out what you actually want here, Marie. DDlg isn’t just about saying 'Daddy' and getting butterflies. It’s . . . more."
I blinked at her. "More how?"
"Structure. Rules. Emotional safety nets. If done right, it’s comforting for both people. Like—" She paused, searching for the words. "Like having a guide through all the messy bits of life. Someone who gets you and holds space for you, but also expects you to hold up your end of things."
"That sounds—" I trailed off, unsure if I wanted to say terrifying or perfect. I finally settled on, “Intense.”
"It is intense," she admitted, tilting her head slightly. "But that intensity can be beautiful. Just don’t go rushing into it thinking it’s all glitter bombs and cuddle piles. It takes trust. Communication. And yeah, maybe some trial and error."
Could I talk to Dwight about this? Would he even want to hear it? “What if he’s not interested?”
"Like I said, there’s lots of trial and error involved. It needs honesty, and if he’s not interested, he’s not interested. No harm done, right?” Exactly." Rebekah pulled her chair closer, her expression softening. "Look, I’m not saying jump him the next time you see him and start listing rules. But maybe spend some time figuring out what you really want first. Is this about Dwight? Or is this about you discovering something bigger?"
"Both," I whispered before I could stop myself. The word felt heavy in the air between us, but also right.
"Then start there," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "Explore it. Learn what makes you tick, what feels good, what doesn’t. And keep me posted, okay? I live for updates like this."
I laughed nervously, rubbing the back of my neck. "Yeah, sure. You’ll be the first to know if I accidentally call another guy Daddy."
"Good girl." Her grin was wicked, and I groaned, tossing a crumpled napkin at her head.
***
By the time I got home, my head was buzzing louder than the old fridge in my kitchen. I dropped my keys on the counter, kicked off my sneakers, and made a beeline for my laptop.
"Let’s see what I’ve gotten myself into," I muttered, lifting the screen and opening a browser tab.
The first search—"DDlg relationship"—felt weird, like I was Googling something illegal. But the results flooded in immediately. Forums. Advice blogs. Articles with titles like " Is DDlg Right For You? " and " Navigating Power Dynamics in a Healthy Way. "
My cheeks burned as I clicked on the first link. A forum post popped up, written by someone named "LittleBunny93." She described how her Daddy helped her manage stress with bedtime routines and silly rewards, like stickers or cookies. It sounded so . . . sweet. Almost painfully so.
I scrolled further. Another post talked about rules—checking in during the day, being honest about feelings, setting boundaries. The idea of rules made my stomach flip, but not in a bad way.
"Okay, not what I expected," I mumbled, clicking onto the next site. This one had a list of common dynamics, ranging from playful to deeply emotional. Words like "trust" and "security" kept popping up, over and over, until they felt carved into my brain.
It wasn’t all fluffy, though. One blog warned about the potential pitfalls: miscommunication, crossing boundaries, emotions running too high. The writer stressed the importance of safe words—and not just for physical stuff, but for emotional safety too.
"Yellow means slow down. Red means stop," I read aloud, my voice barely above a whisper.
The more I read, the less embarrassed I felt. This wasn’t some weird, shameful thing. It was about connection. About two people agreeing on what worked for them and making it happen.
"Consensual," I muttered, scrolling through another page. "Respectful. Supportive."
My mind wandered back to Dwight. He didn’t know that I was doing any of this research. I wondered what he would think of all this? Would he be freaked out? Would he laugh? Or would he . . .
I clicked onto the next link and froze. “ DDlg Contracts: How to Build One That Works for You. ”
Contracts? Like . . . actual written-out agreements? I snorted, shaking my head. It sounded ridiculous at first. Who needed that level of structure in a relationship? But the article pulled me in, line by line. The writer called them “safety nets” and broke down each section—boundaries, responsibilities, even rewards and consequences.
The more I read, the less silly it seemed. This wasn’t just about rules. It was about clarity, trust, building something solid. My mind started spinning with ideas. What if… what if having those structures could help me feel less all over the place? Less like I was stumbling through every new feeling blindfolded?
In my day to day life, I liked to be totally in control. I micromanaged my business, got way too involved in every element of all the gossip in town, and liked to know everything that all my friends were doing. Maybe letting go with Dwight and letting him take control could help me relax into Littlespace, too.
I pictured Dwight reading a list of rules, his deep voice going over each one, making sure I understood.
A shiver ran through me. God, the idea of him taking charge like that . . .
I shook my head again, harder this time. Stop fantasizing, Marie. Focus.
Before I could second-guess myself, I opened a blank document on my laptop. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, my heart pounding in my chest. This was stupid. No, not just stupid—completely insane. Who drafts a fake contract for a guy she’s kissed once?
But I couldn’t stop myself.
I just wanted to know how it would feel.
"DDlg Contract (Draft)," I typed at the top, biting my lip as the words stared back at me in bold black letters. My stomach twisted—not unpleasantly—as I let my mind wander into the possibilities.
"Phone check-ins," I typed next. Simple enough. Maybe one call a day, just to hear his voice, to know someone cared how my day was going.
"Stress cuddles." I grinned at the phrase despite myself. There’d been nights where I’d curled up under a blanket, wishing for someone to wrap their arms around me and tell me everything would be okay.
"Playful punishments . . ." My cheeks burned, but my fingers moved faster now, adding: "For naughty behavior." I didn’t let myself think too hard about what that might mean—or how Dwight might enforce it.
The more I typed, the more real it felt. Ideas poured out of me in a rush, some practical, some downright blush-worthy. Limits on screen time before bed. Rewards for finishing tough work projects. Even small rituals, like wearing something pink on Sundays or sharing favorite childhood movies together.
It wasn’t just arousing—it was comforting. Like knitting together a patchwork quilt from pieces of myself I’d hidden away for years.
The cursor blinked at me, daring me to keep going. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating for the first time since I’d started this ridiculous, exhilarating project. Safe words. They sat in the back of my mind like a challenge I wasn’t sure I wanted to face.
"Yellow" and "Red," I typed slowly, each letter landing with a deliberate click. Simple. Clear. Words that could cut through anything too intense, give me an out if things got overwhelming. A stoplight system, just like Rebekah had suggested.
"Yellow" for slow down.
"Red" for stop.
I stared at them, those two little words, feeling their weight settle into the pit of my stomach. This wasn’t just theory anymore. It wasn’t some half-baked daydream. These words weren’t cute or flirty. They were serious, real. Like a safety net stretched taut below a tightrope walker. And somehow, that made it all the more thrilling, like stepping onto a ledge, toes curling over the edge.
My breath came out shaky as I reread them. “Okay,” I whispered to myself, voice barely more than a tremor. “That’s . . . good. That’s smart.” Emotional safety, right? I was being responsible. Not reckless. Not crazy. Responsible.
But even as I tried to reason with myself, something electric buzzed under my skin, making my palms sweat and my chest feel tight. This was deeper than I’d let myself admit before now. Deeper than the kiss, the way his hand had brushed my cheek, the way Daddy had slipped out of me so easily, like it belonged there.
Dwight.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of him pulling away, his voice low and rough: “I’m not good for anyone.” Not good for anyone? He didn’t get to decide that for me. He didn’t get to make that call.
I opened my eyes and glared at the screen. Fine. If he thought he was such a mess, I’d prove otherwise. I wanted this—structure, boundaries, trust—and I wasn’t afraid to say so. Even if it scared the hell out of me.
"Mutual honesty," I typed next, my hands steady now. "No holding back issues or fears."
The words felt bold. Strong. Maybe stronger than I actually felt, but I didn’t delete them. Not this time.
I leaned back on the couch, staring at my laptop like it might bite me. My fingers were cramped from typing, but I couldn’t bring myself to close the document. It sat there, bold and unapologetic: “DDlg Contract (Draft).” Black letters on a white screen, spelling out things I barely had the guts to admit I wanted.
It was all there. Safe words. Honesty rules. Check-in times. Even punishments. My cheeks burned just thinking about that part, but I’d typed it anyway. For an hour, I’d poured every messy, tangled thought in my head into this thing. Now it stared back at me, daring me to own it.
I scrolled up slowly, reading through what I’d written. Half of it sounded ridiculous. Like something out of a bad movie. The other half? It felt solid. Grounding. Like I had taken all these chaotic feelings and pinned them down, made them real.
What would Dwight think if he saw it?
"God," I muttered, pressing my palms into my eyes. "I’m losing it."
But then, out of nowhere, the memory of his lips on mine came rushing back. Soft but firm. Deliberate. And the way his hand had lingered at the nape of my neck, like he couldn’t quite let go. That kiss wasn’t just heat—it was control. Command. And I’d begged for “more Daddy” without even thinking.
My stomach flipped, and I dropped my hands back into my lap. What if he was intrigued? What if this wasn’t too much, too soon? What if—?
I pushed back from the desk, my chair scraping against the hardwood floor. My laptop screen dimmed, the half-finished contract staring back at me like it was daring me to keep going. But my brain felt fried, and my chest was tight with everything swirling inside me: doubts, excitement, the memory of Dwight’s lips on mine.
I needed a break.
Wandering into my bedroom, I dropped to my knees and reached under the bed. My fingers brushed the edges of a shoebox, and I tugged it out, flipping open the lid. Inside was the collection I never talked about—not to Lucy, not even to Rebekah. Coloring books. A dozen or so, each one full of princesses, magical forests, and cute animals with big eyes.
For years, I’d stuffed them under here like some dirty little secret. Like they were something to be ashamed of. But right now? They didn’t feel embarrassing. They felt . . . comforting.
I pulled out the one on top—a softcover book with unicorns prancing across the front—and flipped through the pages. The scent of fresh paper and waxy crayon marks hit me, and for a moment, everything else in my head quieted down. No contracts, no Dwight, no "what if" spirals. Just bright, silly images waiting to be filled in.
My thumb hovered over a half-colored page—one I’d started months ago but never finished. A fairy queen with long hair and delicate wings smiled up at me, her dress only half-shaded in pink. I traced the outline of her crown with my fingertip, and my shoulders relaxed for the first time all night.
This was me. The part I kept buried when I wanted to seem “normal.” The part that slipped out when I called him Daddy without even thinking. And you know what? That part of me wasn’t going anywhere.
Standing up, I tucked the coloring book back into the box and slid it under the bed again. Tomorrow, maybe, I’d pull it out and actually finish the fairy queen’s dress. Tonight, though, I had other things to deal with.
Back in the living room, the glow of my laptop pulled me in like a magnet. I sat down and stared at the document for a second, my heart skittering in my chest. It wasn’t perfect—not even close—but it was a start.
The cursor blinked at me, waiting. I saved the document and shut the lid with a satisfying click.
For a second, I just sat there, staring at the darkened screen. My pulse hummed with nervous energy, but underneath it all was something steadier. Stronger. Determination.
I wanted this. Not just the dynamic, but the clarity, the structure, the connection. And yeah, I wanted it with Dwight. If he could see past his own baggage and give it a chance.
Crossing the room, I stopped by the window and glanced outside at the empty street. Small Falls was quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that settled deep in your bones.
I couldn’t help but think of Dwight.
"Are you thinking about me?" I whispered, pressing my fingertips to the glass.
The thought sent a shiver down my spine, equal parts thrill and terror. Because this wasn’t just about chasing some fantasy. This was about daring to ask for what I really needed—for once—and hoping he’d meet me halfway.
I turned off the lights and headed to bed, my heart racing. Nervous, yes. But alive. Ready.