Daddy Next Door

Chapter 1

I clicked the mouse for the last time with a flourish and pushed back from my desk. The logo design was finished, my client would be thrilled, and I was done for the day. My shoulders dropped an inch as I exhaled the tension of perfectionism. Work-Lily was clocking out. Little-Lily could finally come out to play in the safety of my carefully constructed world.

I pressed a button and my standing desk started to lower. I loved standing while working, but now, work was over.

My home office told two stories. On the left: professional, pristine, adult. Dual monitors displayed the graphic design software I'd just closed out. Color-coded folders stood at attention. My desk planner showed neatly checked boxes of completed tasks. Everything had its place, just like I'd been taught growing up.

Always be responsible, Lily. Always be grown-up.

On the right side of the same desk lived another version of me. A fuzzy pink pencil holder cradled my collection of glitter pens. A small plushie bunny named Mr. Hops sat partially hidden behind my monitor—visible only to me, a secret companion during stressful client calls. My special cup with a built-in bendy straw waited for the chocolate milk I'd reward myself with later.

I dimmed the overhead lights and switched on the string of fairy lights that framed my window. The pastel curtains softened the evening glow filtering through. My body knew this transition ritual by heart—the subtle shift from designer-Lily to just-Lily. I closed my work computer and pulled my personal laptop forward, its cover decorated with stickers of stars and moons. My breathing changed. My posture softened. I felt myself getting smaller in the best possible way.

The laptop purred to life. My fingers typed the familiar URL: LittlesOnline.com. The site wasn't flashy or modern, just a simple forum with a pale blue background and friendly, rounded font. But to me, it was salvation. A year ago, after a particularly bad anxiety attack following a client meeting, I'd found this community. People like me, who carried the weight of adulthood but sometimes needed to set it down and be cared for.

I logged in as StarryLittle, my alter ego.

The forum loaded, showing new posts since my last visit. Careanna had posted pictures of her new coloring book pages. DreamDoll was asking about weighted blankets. BabyBlue had written a sweet post about their Daddy surprising them with a picnic. I scrolled through, drinking in the normalcy of it all. These people understood the comfort of stuffed animals at twenty-nine, the joy of cartoon band-aids, the security of having someone set boundaries when the world became too much.

My chest tightened with longing. Most members had caregivers—Daddies or Mommies who nurtured their little sides. I had my online friends, my private space, and my imagination. It wasn't enough anymore.

A thread title caught my eye: "Healthy Boundaries: Building Trust in DDLG Relationships." Posted by ProtectorE. My cursor hovered over it, and I clicked without hesitation.

"Remember that proper boundaries aren't walls—they're windows and doors," he'd written. "They let the right things in while keeping harmful elements out. A good Daddy doesn't restrict freedom; he creates the safe space where freedom can truly exist."

Something warm bloomed in my chest as I read his words. ProtectorE—or just E, as I'd come to think of him—had a way of cutting through confusion with gentle clarity. We'd never shared personal details beyond vague generalities. He was a mental health professional, somewhere in his early forties. I was a creative professional in my late twenties. We both lived alone. That was all either of us knew, but our conversations over the past year had created a friendship that felt more real than most of my in-person relationships.

His responses to various littles in the thread showcased his patience and wisdom. One girl worried her Daddy was too strict about bedtimes. Another felt her little side was being neglected. E addressed each concern with thoughtfulness, never dismissive, always asking deeper questions that made me think.

I clicked on his profile picture—not a real photo, just a simple cartoon of a teddy bear holding a book—and typed a private message.

Hey E! Just wanted to say your boundaries thread is really helpful. I've been thinking a lot about what you wrote last week about the difference between control and care. Hope your day has been good! -Starry

The red dot by his name indicated he was offline. I felt a small pang of disappointment. He was normally online this time of day.

A rumbling outside pulled my attention from the screen. I angled my head toward the window, where the pastel curtains filtered the view of my quiet cul-de-sac. The rumbling grew louder—an engine, too heavy for a car. I pushed back from my desk and moved to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to peek out.

A moving truck. Large, white, backing carefully into the driveway of the townhouse next door. The property had been empty for two months since Mrs. Abernathy, my cookie-baking neighbor of three years, had moved to Florida to be closer to her grandchildren.

In my neighborhood of attached townhomes, new neighbors were rare, and—potentially-disruptive. My end unit gave me privacy on one side, and Mrs. Abernathy had been quiet and respectful on the other. I'd grown comfortable with her predictable schedule, her occasional friendly waves, and the tacit agreement that neither of us needed to be involved in the other's business.

A new neighbor meant new patterns. New sounds through the shared wall. New potential for uncomfortable small talk at the mailboxes.

I watched as the truck came to a stop. Two men in uniform jumped out from the cab, and the rear door rolled up with a metallic clatter. I stayed at the window longer than was probably polite, observing as they lowered the ramp and disappeared into the truck's interior.

Back at my desk, I refreshed the forum page. Someone had replied to a question I'd asked yesterday about age regression versus age play—a distinction I was still learning about. I read the response but found my attention drifting back to the window every few minutes, distracted by the sounds of furniture being unloaded.

After the third time catching myself peeking through the curtains, I settled back into my chair and tried to focus on the forum. I typed a thank-you reply to the person who'd answered my question, but my thoughts kept swirling around the unknown person moving in next door. What kind of neighbor would they be? Loud music and late parties? Quiet and reclusive? A family with children? An elderly person?

I refreshed ProtectorE's profile again, hoping he'd come online. The red dot remained. I sighed and scrolled through more posts, finding comfort in the shared experiences of other littles, yet feeling the familiar ache of missing something I'd never actually had—a real-life Daddy who understood both sides of me.

A crash from outside made me jump. I rushed back to the window and peered out, catching sight of something I hadn't seen before—a man standing beside the truck, clipboard in hand. He wasn't one of the movers. Taller, more composed, dressed in a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing thick, tanned forearms. Even from a distance, I could see he was directing the process with calm authority. When one of the movers apologized for dropping whatever had made the noise, the man waved it off with a smile that transformed his whole face.

Something about him made me linger at the window, watching. The gentle way he spoke to the movers. The organized manner in which he checked items off his list. The confident set of his shoulders.

I pulled away from the curtain, feeling like I'd been caught spying, though he hadn't looked my way. Back at my laptop, I found myself opening a new browser tab and typing: "how to welcome new neighbors." The adult, responsible thing would be to introduce myself. Mrs. Abernathy had brought me cookies when I moved in three years ago. Maybe I should do the same.

I couldn't stop watching him. The man directing the movers worked with quiet confidence, pointing and nodding as furniture disappeared into the townhouse. His height was the first thing I noticed—tall enough that he ducked when entering the van. But it was his hands that kept drawing my attention: large, capable hands that gestured with purpose, that steadied a wobbling bookshelf with casual strength. I stepped back from the curtain, my heart beating faster than the situation warranted.

Get a grip, Lily. He's just a neighbor.

I peeked again. He'd rolled up his sleeves further, revealing muscled forearms dusted with dark hair. Mid forties, maybe? Salt and pepper in his stubble caught the light when he turned. A mover dropped the corner of what looked like a dining table, and my new neighbor didn't flinch or yell. He just moved over to help, his voice too low for me to hear but his body language all calm reassurance.

Something about him seemed familiar, though I was certain we'd never met. I'd have remembered.

Pulling away from the window, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My hair was pulled into a messy bun with a sparkly child's scrunchie. I wore my comfort clothes—pastel leggings and an oversized t-shirt with a subtle cartoon character. Not exactly meet-the-neighbors attire.

The adult thing would be to introduce myself. The thought made anxiety flutter in my stomach.

I could just stay in my little space, safe behind my curtains. No one would know. No one would care.

But I'd spent three years in this townhouse building a cordial relationship with Mrs. Abernathy. She'd collected my packages when I was away. I'd watered her plants during her senior cruise. That kind of neighbor insurance policy didn't happen without an introduction.

I closed my laptop and headed to my bedroom. My closet was as divided as my office—work clothes on the left, comfortable clothes on the right. I selected something in between: a blue sundress with tiny white stars scattered across the fabric.

I brushed out my hair, replaced the kid's scrunchie with a more adult-appropriate hair tie, and added a touch of tinted lip balm. In the mirror, I practiced my Normal Adult Woman smile. Not too eager. Not too distant. Just neighborly.

What did people bring to new neighbors? I tapped through my phone for ideas. Cookies seemed too Mrs. Abernathy. Wine felt too familiar. Plants required care from someone in the middle of moving.

I settled on a practical approach. In a small basket, I assembled items from my pantry and supply closet: good coffee, granola bars, hand soap, paper towels, and a roll of toilet paper (because who remembers to pack that?). I added a notepad with my phone number "for neighborhood emergencies" and a small potted succulent that could survive neglect. Practical, thoughtful, not overly personal.

Standing at my front door, basket in hand, I hesitated. The last of the moving truck contents were being unloaded. My new neighbor stood on his porch, checking items off his clipboard as they passed. His profile was strong—straight nose, defined jaw under that stubble, broad shoulders under a now-slightly-rumpled blue shirt.

I took a deep breath and stepped outside.

The short walkway to his door felt longer with each step. The basket grew heavier. My prepared greeting— Hi, I'm Lily from next door, just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood —repeated in my head like a mantra.

As I approached his porch, he looked up from his clipboard. Our eyes met. His were blue—not the washed-out, barely-there blue, but a deep, thoughtful color like a spring sky. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners when his face registered my approach.

"Hi there," he said, his voice a pleasant baritone.

My rehearsed greeting vanished. "I brought you things," I blurted, lifting the basket.

His smile widened, transforming his whole face from merely handsome to something that made my stomach flip. "That's incredibly kind," he said, setting his clipboard on a nearby box and coming down the porch steps to meet me.

Up close, he was even taller than I'd thought, at least six feet. I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, which made me feel suddenly, strangely small.

"I'm Lily Morgan," I managed, finding my script again. "I live next door. Thought you might need some supplies while you're getting settled."

He reached for the basket just as I shifted my grip, and our fingers brushed against each other. A tingle ran up my arm that had nothing to do with static electricity.

"Ethan Hayes," he said, his fingers lingering against mine for a beat longer than necessary. "And you're right, I absolutely need these things. How did you know?"

I shrugged, hyperaware of how close we were standing. "I've moved a few times. These are always the things I forget until it's too late and I'm in my pajamas, unable to go to the store."

His eyes crinkled again. "Smart and thoughtful. I lucked out in the neighbor department."

He took the basket, examining its contents with genuine appreciation. When he spotted the toilet paper, he actually laughed—a rich sound that made me want to hear it again.

"You're a lifesaver, Lily Morgan," he said, my name sounding somehow special in his voice. "This is exactly what I need. The moving company is efficient but not exactly gentle with my things."

"I noticed," I said, then immediately worried I'd given away my window-watching. "I mean, I heard some crashes."

Ethan nodded, seemingly unbothered. "They've turned one chair into modern art and murdered at least one lamp. Hazards of relocation." He glanced behind him at the still-open door. "Would you like to come in? I can't offer you a seat yet—the couch is somewhere under all those boxes—but I just got the coffee maker working."

Every stranger-danger warning bell should have been ringing, but none were. Instead, I felt an unusual pull toward him, a comfort that made no logical sense.

"I'd like that," I said, surprising myself.

He stepped aside, making space for me to enter first, his hand hovering near—but not touching—the small of my back as I passed. It wasn't a touch, but the nearness of it sent warmth spreading through me nonetheless.

The interior of his townhouse was identical to mine in layout but chaotically different in current state. Boxes teetered in precarious stacks. Furniture sat at odd angles, waiting for proper placement. The movers had departed, leaving Ethan to sort through the aftermath.

"It's a disaster zone," he said, setting my basket on a counter. "But the kitchen's functional. Coffee?"

I nodded, watching as he moved efficiently through the space, finding mugs, sugar, and cream without having to search. For someone who'd just moved in, he seemed remarkably oriented to his environment.

"So," he said, measuring coffee grounds, "what do you do, Lily Morgan from next door?"

"I'm a graphic designer," I said. "I work from home, mostly for clients on the east coast."

His eyebrows lifted with interest. "Creative work. Do you enjoy it?"

The question was simple but asked with such genuine curiosity that I found myself giving a real answer instead of my usual polite one.

"Parts of it. I love the design process—solving visual problems, making something both beautiful and functional. I don't love the client management part as much. Some people have very . . . strong opinions about things they don't understand."

He handed me a mug, our fingers brushing again. This time I was prepared for the little shock of awareness, but it still made my breath catch.

"I understand that completely," he said. "I'm a psychologist. People sometimes have very fixed ideas about what they want versus what I can see they actually need."

A psychologist. My heart did a complicated flip.

"That must be challenging," I said, taking a sip of perfectly prepared coffee.

He leaned against the counter, long legs crossed at the ankle. "It is, but it's worth it. I specialize in helping people connect with their inner child. Children are the most authentic, honest people. They haven't learned to hide parts of themselves yet." His eyes met mine over his mug. "Adults could learn a lot from them."

Something in his tone made me wonder if he could see right through me—if somehow my little side was visible to his trained eye. I looked away, my cheeks warming.

"What brought you to this neighborhood?" I asked, changing the subject.

"A new position at Pinewood Medical Center. And I wanted somewhere quieter after years in the city. Somewhere I could put down roots." He gestured to a box labeled 'BOOKS - PSYCHOLOGY' in neat block letters. "Somewhere with enough shelf space for my collection."

We talked easily after that. He asked thoughtful questions about my work, my time in the neighborhood, favorite local spots. I found myself sharing more than I normally would with someone I'd just met—my favorite coffee shop with the reading nook, the trail by the creek where I walked when stuck on a design problem, the farmers market that set up on Saturdays.

As we talked, I noticed how Ethan moved in the space—with purpose and care. When I accidentally knocked an empty box with my elbow, sending it toward a precariously balanced stack, he caught it smoothly before it could cause a domino effect. His reflexes were impressive, his body angling protectively between me and the potential cascade of boxes.

"Sorry," I said, embarrassed.

"Don't be," he replied, his hand briefly squeezing my shoulder before letting go. "Moving chaos isn't your fault."

That brief touch, warm and firm through the fabric of my dress, sent a wave of something unfamiliar through me—a desire to lean into his strength, to let some of my carefully maintained self-control dissolve.

I took a step back, confused by my reaction. I'd dated before. I'd been touched before. This was different—this wasn't just attraction. This was something that resonated with a deeper part of me, the part I kept hidden behind my pastel curtains.

"I should let you get back to unpacking," I said, setting my empty mug on the counter. "But if you need anything else, I'm right through that wall." I pointed to our shared wall.

He walked me to the door, moving slightly ahead to open it for me—a small, old-fashioned courtesy that somehow didn't feel patronizing.

"Thank you again for the welcome basket," he said. "It was incredibly thoughtful."

"It's nothing," I replied, stepping onto the porch. "Just being neighborly."

"Well, I hope neighbor Lily will show me around sometime. I'd like to see those places you mentioned through local eyes."

"I'd be happy to," I said, meaning it despite my confusion. "Good luck with the unpacking."

As I walked back to my door, I felt his eyes on me. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that made me feel simultaneously seen and protected. I glanced back once before entering my house. He was still standing in his doorway, watching me with that same warm smile that reached his eyes.

Inside, with my door safely closed, I leaned against it and exhaled. Ethan Hayes was nothing like what I'd expected in a new neighbor.

He was so much more dangerous to my carefully separated worlds.

***

I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My skin still tingled where Ethan had almost touched me. I kicked off my sandals and headed straight for my bedroom, needing to process the afternoon in the only way I knew how.

My hands trembled slightly as I peeled off the star-patterned sundress. I stood in my underwear, catching sight of myself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, messy hair, eyes bright with an emotion I wasn't ready to name.

In my dresser, I bypassed the "normal" pajamas and reached for the bottom drawer—my special drawer. I pulled out soft purple leggings covered in tiny moons and a oversized t-shirt with a cartoon character on the front. The fabric was worn from washing, buttery-soft against my skin as I slipped it on. Already, I felt my breathing slow, my shoulders drop.

I padded to the bathroom and washed my face, removing the light makeup I'd applied for my neighborly visit. As I dried my skin with a plush face towel, I studied my reflection. Without makeup, I looked younger. More vulnerable. More me.

Back in my bedroom, I gathered my comfort items—Mr. Hops the bunny from my desk, a fuzzy blanket in pastel blue, and the sparkly scrunchie I'd removed earlier. I pulled my hair into a messy bun, securing it with the childish hair tie that no one but me would see.

The living room was quiet as evening settled in. I curled up on my couch, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders, Mr. Hops nestled in my lap. My little ritual: breathe in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. With each breath, I let adult Lily—professional, composed, always in control—fade to the background. I let myself be small.

But thoughts of Ethan wouldn't fade with my adult persona. If anything, they intensified.

His hands, so careful with the books, so strong with the furniture. How would they feel on my skin?

I hugged Mr. Hops tighter, confused by how these thoughts followed me into my little space.

What would he think if he knew? If he saw me now, curled up with a stuffed bunny, wearing clothes from the juniors department? Would those kind blue eyes turn confused? Disgusted? Would he see me as broken? Childish?

Or would he understand?

I couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk having those eyes that made me feel so seen turn away in discomfort. He was my neighbor. We shared a wall. If things went badly, there would be no escape.

My laptop sat on the coffee table, its notification light blinking. I pulled it onto my lap, careful not to disturb Mr. Hops, and opened the screen. The LittlesOnline forum was still up from earlier. There was a message from ProtectorE.

The green dot beside his name showed he was online now.

Starry? Still there? Hope I didn't lose you. Just wanted to check in.

I smiled at the screen, comforted by his concern. E had been my confidant for nearly a year—the one person who knew this side of me, even if he didn't know my real name or face. I began typing.

Sorry for disappearing! You won't believe what happened. Remember I mentioned a moving truck outside? Turns out my new neighbor is this really interesting guy. I brought him a welcome basket (super adult of me, right?). Just got back inside.

I paused, fingers hovering over the keys. How much should I share? E and I had never discussed our personal lives in great detail. Our connection existed within the safe boundaries of the forum—discussions about little space, caregiving dynamics, the challenges of balancing adult responsibilities with our desires.

But something about today's encounter with Ethan made me want to share more. To try to understand the confusing feelings swirling inside me.

He's not what I expected, I continued. He's a psychologist. Tall, kind eyes, really calm energy. The type who makes you feel safe just by being in the same room.

ProtectorE's response came quickly:

Sounds like you made quite an impression on each other. Tell me more about him. What stood out to you?

His interest encouraged me. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and kept typing, the words flowing easily now.

Everything about him is careful but not rigid. Like how he directed the movers—firm but kind. And he's so TALL. But not in a scary way. In a way that made me feel... I don't know... protected? When we were moving the bookcase, he kept checking if I was okay, but he didn't treat me like I was fragile. He listened when I said I was stronger than I look.

I sent that message, then immediately began another, unable to stop now that I'd started.

Sometimes people recognize kindred spirits without knowing exactly why. Do you think you'll get to know him better?

I hugged Mr. Hops closer, considering the question.

I think I will, I wrote. There's something about him that feels important. But I'm scared too. I've never met someone in real life who made me feel the way I do in my little space—safe, seen, small in a good way. Is that weird? To just meet someone and immediately feel that connection?

I hit send before I could overthink it, then added:

There's something about him that makes me want to be small, to be taken care of. I've never felt that with someone in real life before. Is that weird?

My heart raced as I watched the message status change to "Read." The typing indicator appeared immediately. Three dots pulsing as ProtectorE composed his response. I held my breath, watching those dots blink. One second. Two. Three.

What would he say? Would he warn me to be careful? Tell me I was projecting my desires onto a stranger? Or would he understand this inexplicable connection I'd felt with Ethan?

The cursor continued to blink. Whatever E was writing, he was taking his time with it. Just like Ethan had taken his time selecting exactly the right books for each shelf, finding the perfect place for each one.

Ethan, who had just moved. Who was a mental health professional in his early forties. Who understood children and boundaries and safety.

ProtectorE, who had said earlier today that he was moving. Who had professional insight into creating safe spaces. Who was online right now, carefully composing a response to my confession about a neighbor who made me feel small.

The dots continued to pulse. I waited, heart thumping against my ribs, for words that might change everything.

Then, the dot next to his name turned red. He was offline.