Daddy Next Door

Chapter 2

T he rhythmic thud of a hammer next door pulled me from sleep an hour before my alarm. I blinked at the ceiling, mentally calculating how early Ethan must have woken to already be so productive.

I rolled over, burying my face in my pillow, but curiosity about what he might be building won out over my attempt to reclaim sleep.

My phone showed 6:23 AM. The Vitality Juice rebrand was due in three days, and I'd promised myself an early start anyway. The persistent hammering next door seemed like the universe's way of enforcing that promise.

I shuffled to my bathroom, the cool tile shocking my bare feet awake. As I brushed my teeth, my thoughts drifted to last night's abrupt ending with ProtectorE. We'd been in the middle of a conversation when he'd suddenly gone offline. No goodbye, no explanation. Just gone. It wasn't like him at all. ProtectorE was always careful, always communicative. The inconsistency nagged at me as I spat toothpaste into the sink.

My home office was bathed in the soft glow of morning light through sheer curtains. I settled at my desk with coffee in my favorite mug – a ceramic cup with tiny painted stars that no client would ever see on video calls. The Vitality Juice mockups were spread across my second monitor, their vibrant greens and yellows still not quite right. Too corporate for a company that prided itself on being earthy and authentic.

I adjusted the color palette, twisting my hair into a messy bun as I worked. From next door, the hammering had stopped, replaced by the occasional thud of what sounded like moving furniture. I imagined Ethan arranging his living room, those strong therapist arms positioning couches and bookcases with methodical precision.

Stop it, Lily.

I forced my attention back to the screen, adding more organic shapes to the logo design. My fingers worked quickly, but my mind kept slipping next door. What kind of furniture did he have? Was his taste minimalist? Traditional? Was he hanging photos of family, of past relationships? Did he have a special mug he drank from every morning too?

The sound of a truck rumbling outside my window gave me a legitimate excuse to peek. I pushed back from my desk and parted the curtains to see a delivery truck stopped in front of Ethan's house. The driver and Ethan were gesturing at a massive box on the truck bed.

I watched them attempt to slide it onto a dolly, Ethan's T-shirt riding up to reveal a stripe of skin above his jeans as he leaned into the effort. The box was clearly too awkward for one person to manage. The delivery guy's body language screamed "this isn't in my job description."

My coffee was half-finished and getting cold. The Vitality Juice logo was half-completed and going nowhere. I recognized the box design from my own purchase last year–a premium standing desk, the one item that had made my work-from-home life bearable during endless video meetings.

Before I could overthink it, I was stepping into my slip-on shoes, not bothering to change out of my yoga pants and oversized Marvel T-shirt that Jen had gotten me last Christmas. The shirt had a subtle pattern of Baby Groot peeking from behind the logo. Professional enough for a neighborly hello, but a tiny nod to my little side that most people wouldn't notice.

"Need a hand?" I called, jogging down my porch steps. Both men turned, the delivery guy with visible relief and Ethan with surprise that quickly warmed into a smile.

"Morning, Lily," Ethan said, his voice a deep contrast to the bright day. "This is a bit more than I bargained for."

"I recognize that box," I said, pointing. "XR3000 standing desk? I have the same one."

The delivery guy had already started inching back toward his truck. "It says 'delivery to door' on the order, not 'assembly required.'"

Ethan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I've got it from here, thanks."

As the truck pulled away, we stood examining the monolith of cardboard and packing materials. Ethan turned to me with an apologetic smile. "I didn't mean to recruit you for heavy lifting first thing in the morning."

"Better than staring at a screen. Besides, these things are tricky. Two sets of hands make it easier." I positioned myself at one end of the box. "On three?"

Working together, we awkwardly shuffled the box up his porch steps and through his front door. The entryway opened to a living room that was more put-together than during my welcome-basket visit. Bookshelves now lined one wall, filled with psychology texts and what looked like research journals.

“Damn, you work quick.”

“Was up past midnight.”

"Home office?" I asked, nodding to the box between us.

"Yeah, down the hall. I'm setting up the second bedroom."

We navigated the box through the hallway, my back occasionally brushing against the wall. Ethan guided from his end, his instructions clear and direct. "Tilt right a bit—perfect. Now just a few more steps."

The room was clean and minimal–just a simple desk with a desktop and a comfortable-looking chair so far. Large windows let in plenty of natural light, and a small potted plant sat on the windowsill.

We set the box down in the center of the room, and I felt a drop of sweat roll down my back from the exertion. Ethan looked unfazed, not even breathing hard.

"Thanks for the rescue," he said. "I should've known better than to think I could handle this solo."

"My expertise doesn't end at graphic design," I said with a smile. "I'm also a semi-professional furniture assembler."

"Is that so?" His eyebrow arched with amusement.

"The XR3000 and I had quite the battle last year. I learned its weaknesses. I can help you set it up if you want—the instructions miss a couple of crucial steps."

Ethan looked at the box, then back at me. "That would be amazing, actually. Are you sure you're not too busy?"

I thought of the Vitality Juice logo waiting on my screen. "I could use a break from work. Sometimes stepping away helps me see things clearer when I go back."

"I know exactly what you mean." His smile created tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. "Let me get us some water first. It's thirsty work."

While he went to the kitchen, I examined the room more closely. A framed diploma hung on one wall—his psychology doctorate from Brown. Below it, a certification in play therapy. Everything was arranged with precision, even the pens on his temporary desk lined up by size.

When he returned with water glasses, we set to work unpacking the desk. I appreciated how he listened attentively to my advice about the assembly, never dismissing my experience despite being older and much stronger than me. We fell into an easy rhythm—me holding pieces in place while he tightened screws, him steadying the frame while I connected the wiring for the height adjustment.

"This part's tricky," I said, reaching for a small Allen wrench in the tool pile between us. Our fingers brushed as he reached for the same tool, and a small jolt ran up my arm. His hands were warm and dry, fingers long and steady.

"Sorry," he murmured, pulling back to let me take it.

"No problem." My voice sounded higher than usual. I focused intently on the screw I was tightening, aware of his gaze on my hands.

The most challenging part came when we needed to attach the desktop to the frame. I was demonstrating how to align the pre-drilled holes when Ethan moved behind me to see better. His chest was inches from my back, his breath warm against my neck as he leaned forward.

"Like this?" he asked, reaching around me to point at the connection point. His arm didn't touch me, but the closeness made my skin prickle with awareness.

"Yeah," I managed, the word coming out slightly breathless. "The trick is to start with this corner screw, then move diagonally."

He nodded, his chin almost brushing my shoulder, then stepped back. The space behind me felt suddenly empty, cooler.

As we finished the assembly, I noticed a small teddy bear logo on a notebook on his desk. Something about it seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it.

Ethan tested the height adjustment, nodding with satisfaction as the desk smoothly rose. "Perfect. You're a lifesaver, Lily."

"Happy to help." I wiped my hands on my yoga pants. "How's the move-in going otherwise?"

"Almost done unpacking. Just a few technical issues to sort out." He ran a hand through his hair. "The internet's been spotty. Keeps cutting out at the worst moments."

"That happened to me when I first moved in too. Might be the old wiring in these houses."

"Probably." He gathered the packing materials, his movements efficient and planned. "I need reliable internet for my sessions. Can't have it dropping in the middle of a conversation. Anyway thanks again for your help. I owe you one."

"Neighbors help neighbors," I said, though I felt a flutter in my stomach at the idea of him "owing me one."

As I headed back to my house, the Vitality Juice logo seemed suddenly clearer in my mind. I knew exactly what it needed. Sometimes a different perspective was all it took.

***

I closed the final email to the Vitality Juice client with a satisfied click. The rebrand had come together beautifully after my impromptu break helping Ethan. Stretching my stiff shoulders, I glanced at the clock—9:17 PM. Late enough that logging onto LittlesOnline wouldn't feel like procrastination. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for just a second before muscle memory took over, typing the familiar URL, my heart quickening as the pastel-colored login page loaded.

The forums were busy tonight, dozens of conversation threads about everything from favorite stuffed animals to boundary-setting with potential caregivers. But I wasn't here for the general forums.

My eyes immediately went to the chat sidebar. There, marked with a green dot indicating "online," was ProtectorE's avatar—a stylized teddy bear wearing glasses.

I clicked his name without hesitation.

StarryLittle: You're back! Where did you disappear to last night?

I watched the little animated dots that showed he was typing. They stopped, started again, then finally:

ProtectorE: I'm so sorry about that, Starry. My internet connection cut out completely in the middle of our talk. By the time I got it working again, it was very late, and I figured you'd gone to bed.

StarryLittle: No worries! I was just worried something had happened to you.

ProtectorE: That's very sweet of you. I should have messaged you today to explain, but work was especially busy. How has your day been? Did you make progress on that big project?

I smiled at his thoughtfulness, always remembering the details of my life.

StarryLittle: Actually, yes! I finally nailed the rebrand. But the most interesting part of my day was helping my new neighbor set up his standing desk.

I paused, fingers hovering over the keys. Was I really going to gush about Ethan to ProtectorE? But he was my confidant, the person who understood parts of me that no one else did.

StarryLittle: Remember that neighbor I told you about? The psychologist? I ended up spending almost two hours at his place today.

The response dots appeared immediately.

ProtectorE: The one you brought the welcome basket to? Tell me more about that. How did desk assembly turn into a two-hour visit?

The question was casual enough, but I sensed a particular interest behind it. I detailed the morning's events—hearing Ethan through the wall, seeing him struggle with the delivery, offering to help. As I typed, I found myself including small details I hadn't consciously registered at the time: the way his forearms flexed when tightening screws, how he smelled faintly of cedar and coffee, the precise way he organized his tools as we worked.

ProtectorE: Sounds like you two worked well together. Did you talk much during this desk assembly?

StarryLittle: Yes, but mostly about the desk. He was really attentive though—listened to my suggestions without questioning them. Not all men would take furniture assembly advice from a woman they barely know.

There was a longer pause before his next response.

ProtectorE: Maybe we shouldn’t talk about your neighbour. It’s important to stay anonymous online .

I swallowed. He was right.

StarryLittle: Okay. You’re probably right.

The chat window waited, patient and non-judgmental.

ProtectorE: Sorry. Didn’t meant to shut you down.

StarryLittle: Don’t worry. I know you’re just looking after me.

ProtectorE: Right. And I’m sure that’s what your neighbour would want, too.

I took a deep breath, my fingers trembling slightly over the keys.

StarryLittle: Okay. Well. Speak to you soon, I hope.

I logged off, feeling a little weird. It felt like, even though I’d met Ethan, I was more alone than before.

***

T he heat wave hit our little town like a broken furnace—sudden, stifling, and completely out of place for early spring. Three days of temperatures climbing into the nineties had turned my small patio garden into a collection of wilting accusations. I filled my watering can for the third time that afternoon, sweat beading along my hairline despite the thin cotton sundress I'd changed into after finishing work. The weatherman had promised rain tomorrow, but my sad basil plants couldn't wait that long.

My phone chimed with a text from Jen asking if I wanted to join her for drinks later, but the thought of the crowded bar she favored made my skin prickle with anticipated discomfort. Sometimes after a long workday, adult socializing felt like wearing shoes one size too small—technically possible but increasingly painful. I texted back a rain check, promising brunch on the weekend instead.

I was just bending to water the struggling marigolds when a mechanical clicking sound registered a second too late. The automated sprinkler system—which I'd completely forgotten the landlord had installed last fall—sprang to life with a hiss. Cold water sprayed in wild arcs, catching me full in the face and chest.

"Shit!" I jumped backward, watering can dropping from my hands. Water soaked through my thin dress, plastering it to my skin. The sprinklers continued their determined assault on everything within range, including me.

I darted sideways, seeking the narrow passage between my house and Ethan's. It was the only nearby spot the sprinklers didn't reach. Pressing my back against the siding, I caught my breath and assessed the damage. My dress clung transparently to my body, pink bra clearly visible underneath. My hair dripped cold rivulets down my neck.

"Perfect," I muttered, glancing down at myself. I'd have to dash through the spray again to reach my back door, or circle all the way around the front. As I contemplated my options, a movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention.

From this specific angle between our houses, I had a direct line of sight into Ethan's bathroom window. He'd left it cracked open, probably seeking relief from the heat. A privacy frosted window, but with the bottom portion open, the interior was unexpectedly visible from this exact spot—a spot nobody would normally stand in.

I should look away. I knew that. But before my brain could send the appropriate signals to my neck muscles, Ethan stepped from his shower into view.

Water cascaded from his broad shoulders, catching light as it ran down the contours of his back. Steam rose around him in the small bathroom, giving the scene a dreamlike quality. He reached for a towel, the movement highlighting the defined muscles of his arms and back—not the showy bulk of a gym rat, but the solid strength of a man who used his body purposefully.

My breath caught as he half-turned, giving me a profile view. His chest was dusted with dark hair that narrowed into a trail down his flat stomach. He ran the towel over his hair, face tilted upward with his eyes closed.

I knew I should turn away. Yet I remained frozen, my feet seemingly glued to the narrow dirt path.

When he dropped the towel lower to dry his hips and legs, I saw him fully. My mouth went dry. He was larger than I'd imagined—thick and substantial even in its relaxed state, hanging heavy between strong thighs. Like something primal, untamed despite his otherwise civilized demeanor.

A pulse of heat shot through me, settling low in my belly and between my legs. My nipples hardened against the wet fabric of my dress, a reaction completely disconnected from the cold water that had soaked me.

The adult woman in me appreciated his body with straightforward desire—I wanted to touch, to taste, to feel that body against mine. But something else stirred too—my little side responding to his physical presence with a different kind of yearning. Not just for sex, but for protection, for the safety those strong arms promised. The duality of my reaction confused and intensified my arousal.

He turned further, and I finally managed to wrench my gaze away, heart hammering in my chest. I pressed myself flat against the siding, hoping he hadn't spotted movement outside his window. After counting to twenty with my eyes squeezed shut, I chanced a careful look. The bathroom was empty now, the moment passed.

I made a dash through the still-spraying water to my back door, fumbling with wet hands to get it open. Once inside, I leaned against the closed door, breathing hard. My skin felt hypersensitive, nerve endings firing with confused signals—the cold of my wet clothes contrasting with the heat flooding my core.

Peeling off the soaked dress, I wrapped myself in a fluffy robe and tried to process what had just happened. I'd seen my neighbor naked. By accident, yes, but I'd kept looking when I should have turned away. Guilt and arousal warred within me, neither gaining clear advantage.

I busied myself with mundane tasks for the rest of the evening—answered emails, heated up leftover pasta for dinner, called my mom for our weekly chat. But my mind kept returning to that moment between the houses, to water droplets tracing paths down Ethan's skin, to the unexpected glimpse of his most intimate self.

By nine o'clock, I'd given up any pretense of productivity. I tried settling in my little space—the corner of my bedroom with soft blankets and stuffed animals where I sometimes colored or watched cartoons to decompress. But tonight, even my favorite plush bunny and the soothing pastel colors couldn't quiet the persistent thrumming under my skin.

I closed my little space trunk and turned off the twinkle lights that usually brought me comfort. Different comfort was needed tonight. I changed into a tank top and cotton shorts, then lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling fan rotating lazily above me.

The heat of the day lingered in my bedroom despite the fan's efforts. I closed my eyes, and immediately Ethan appeared in my mind—water sluicing down his muscled body, that trail of hair leading my eye downward to what hung between his legs.

My hand moved to my breast almost of its own accord, palm brushing over my nipple through the thin cotton. The touch sent a jolt straight between my thighs. I circled my nipple with my fingers, imagining larger hands, Ethan's hands, touching me with the same deliberate care he showed in everything else.

I slipped my other hand beneath the waistband of my shorts, finding myself already slick with arousal. I stroked my fingers through my folds, gathering wetness before circling my clit with a practiced touch.

"Ethan," I whispered into the empty room, testing how his name felt on my lips in this context. A shiver ran through me at the forbidden thrill of fantasizing about my neighbor.

I pushed my shorts down my legs and spread my thighs wider, giving myself better access. My fingers moved more purposefully now, dipping inside my entrance before returning to the sensitive bundle of nerves that sent pleasure spiraling through me. My other hand continued working my breast, pinching and rolling my nipple between my fingers.

He was right next door. Right now. He was so close, just a wall away.

In my mind, I reconstructed what I'd seen—Ethan's powerful shoulders, the defined muscles of his back, his thick cock. But my fantasy added elements: his deep voice murmuring praise against my ear, those capable hands gripping my hips, the weight of his body pressing mine into the mattress.

Also, to my surprise, I imagined him tying me up. Restraining me. Fucking me.

"You're doing so well," Fantasy Ethan said in my head, his voice a perfect blend of the therapist's professional tone and something darker, more primal. "Such a good girl for me."

The phrase "good girl" sent a sharp spike of pleasure through me. I increased the pressure on my clit, circling faster as my hips began to rise to meet my hand. My breathing grew ragged, little whimpers escaping with each exhale.

I slipped two fingers inside myself, curling them to find the spot that made my thighs tremble. With my thumb still working my clit, I fucked myself slowly with my fingers, imagining they were his—larger, stronger, reaching deeper.

The dual sensation pushed me closer to the edge. I turned my face into my pillow, muffling the sounds I couldn't control as tension built low in my belly, winding tighter with each stroke of my fingers.

In my fantasy, Ethan was above me, his weight supported on powerful arms, his eyes holding mine as he pushed inside me. "Let go for me," Fantasy Ethan commanded, his voice both gentle and unyielding. "I've got you."

The imagined words broke something loose inside me. My back arched off the bed as orgasm swept through me in pulsing waves. My inner walls clenched around my fingers as I gasped his name, over and over, into the darkness of my room.

As the pleasure ebbed, reality seeped back in. I lay there, hand still between my thighs, breathing hard. The ceiling fan continued its indifferent rotation. Outside, a car drove past, its headlights briefly illuminating my wall before disappearing.

I pulled my blanket over my cooling skin despite the lingering heat. Tomorrow I'd have to face him again, carry on normal neighborly interactions while holding the secret knowledge of his naked body and what I'd done with that knowledge.

Sleep eventually found me, but my dreams were filled with water and steam, strong hands and gentle words, and the persistent feeling of wanting something I wasn't sure I could name.

I’d find a way to make up for it.

***

T he chocolate chip cookies cooled on my counter, their edges perfectly golden-brown. Seven days since Ethan had moved in next door, and I'd spent an embarrassing amount of that week thinking about him—especially after the sprinkler incident.

I'd managed to avoid him for three days after accidentally seeing him naked, but avoidance felt childish now. Besides, good neighbors brought baked goods. That's what normal, mature adults did when they weren't hiding from their attractive neighbors or masturbating while thinking about them. I arranged the cookies on a blue plate, covered them with plastic wrap, and headed next door before I could talk myself out of it.

My knock was answered quickly, as if he'd been nearby. Ethan opened the door wearing reading glasses perched low on his nose, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and jeans. The glasses were new—they softened his face somehow, made him look both more intellectual and more approachable.

"Lily," he said, genuine pleasure warming his voice. "This is a nice surprise."

I thrust the plate forward like a shield. "I made too many cookies. Thought you might want some."

He removed his glasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket. "You're just determined to be the best neighbor in town, aren't you? Come in, please."

His home looked different again—more settled, with books on shelves and framed photographs on the walls. A leather armchair sat in the corner with a reading lamp beside it, a book splayed open on the seat. The place had a lived-in feeling now, as if he'd been here much longer than a week.

"Can I get you something to drink? Water, coffee, tea?" he offered, taking the cookies to the kitchen.

"Coffee would be great, actually." I followed him, noting how confidently he moved through the space, already at home in a way that had taken me months to achieve in my place.

"How's the standing desk working out?" I asked, leaning against the counter as he prepared coffee in a French press.

"It's been a lifesaver for my back." He pressed the plunger down with deliberate pressure. "Thanks again for your help with that."

"Happy to assist with furniture assembly anytime." I winced internally at how eager I sounded.

He poured coffee into two mugs, one midnight blue, one forest green. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Just black is fine."

He handed me the green mug. Our fingers didn't touch during the exchange, and I felt oddly disappointed.

"So," he said, gesturing toward the living room, "how has your week been? Any progress on those juice people?"

I smiled, surprised he remembered. "Vitality Juice? Project delivered and approved. They loved the rebrand."

"Congratulations." His smile reached his eyes, creating those little crinkles I found unreasonably attractive. "That's got to feel satisfying."

We settled into his living room, me on the couch, him in the armchair. The cookies sat on the coffee table between us, still untouched.

"What about you? Getting settled into the new practice?" I asked, cradling the warm mug between my palms.

"Slowly but surely." He took a sip of coffee. "I've been doing mostly assessment sessions this week, getting to know new clients."

"That must be interesting—meeting new people, hearing their stories."

Something in his expression shifted, became more animated. "It's fascinating, actually. One of the things I love most about my job is seeing how people present themselves initially versus who they really are once they feel safe enough to show you."

I tensed slightly, wondering if somehow he knew about my voyeuristic moment, but his expression remained open, unaccusing.

"What do you mean?" I asked, taking a cookie to give my hands something to do.

"Most people come in with what I call their 'public self'—the version they think is acceptable or impressive," he explained, leaning forward slightly. "But underneath, there's usually this whole other authentic self they're protecting. My job is creating a space where they feel safe enough to let that hidden self be seen."

His words resonated somewhere deep inside me. I thought of my carefully maintained professional persona versus my little side—the part of me that colored with crayons and slept with stuffed animals.

"I had a client recently," he continued, "professional woman, very put-together, who revealed she collects toy trains. Has an entire room in her basement dedicated to this elaborate model railroad setup. She'd never told anyone because she thought people would find it childish or weird."

"Did you think it was weird?" I asked, hearing the tension in my own voice.

His eyes met mine directly. "Not at all. I thought it was beautiful that she had this creative outlet, this thing that brought her joy. Too many adults deny themselves pleasure because they're worried about appearing childish."

Something warm unfurled in my chest. "That's . . . a refreshing perspective."

"We all have parts of ourselves we hide because we fear judgment," he said, finally taking a cookie himself. "But those hidden parts are often where our true joy lives."

The conversation felt weighted with meaning beyond the words themselves. Was he speaking generally, or did he somehow sense something about me? It seemed impossible, yet his gentle eyes held a knowing quality that made me wonder.

"Do you have clients who are . . ." I paused, searching for a way to ask without revealing too much. "Who regress? As a coping mechanism?"

He nodded, expression professionally neutral but not dismissive. "Age regression can be a perfectly healthy coping mechanism for some people. Our society puts enormous pressure on adults to always be 'on,' always responsible. Finding safe ways to experience freedom from those expectations can be healing."

My hands trembled slightly around my mug. If he noticed, he didn't comment.

"That's good to know," I managed, voice casual despite my racing heart. "I've read about that online."

He bit into his cookie, eyes widening with appreciation. "These are excellent, by the way."

"Thanks. My grandmother's recipe." I welcomed the change of subject. "Extra vanilla is the secret."

We chatted about baking for a few minutes, the conversation flowing easily. Then he glanced at his watch and sighed.

"I hate to cut this short, but I have some preparation to do. I'm attending a conference in Chicago next weekend—leaving Friday morning, back late Sunday."

"Oh? What kind of conference?" I asked, setting my empty mug down.

"About survivors of PTSD, actually. I'm presenting a paper on play therapy techniques." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I'd noticed he made when shifting topics. "I'm a bit concerned about leaving the house, to be honest. My security system isn't fully set up yet."

"I could keep an eye on the place," I offered, the words out before I'd fully considered them. "I work from home, so I'm here most of the time anyway."

Relief softened his features. "That would be incredible, Lily. Are you sure it's not too much trouble?"

"Not at all. What are neighbors for?"

"I'd feel much better knowing you were watching things." He seemed genuinely grateful. "I'll leave a spare key, just in case of emergency. There's a loose brick on the side of the porch steps—perfect hiding spot."

"Sounds good," I said, standing to take my mug to the kitchen. "Anything specific you need me to do besides keeping an eye out?"

"Actually, yes." He followed me, taking my mug and placing it in the sink alongside his. "I have a peace lily in my office that needs specific care. Would you mind watering it while I'm gone?"

"Sure, no problem."

"Let me show you exactly what it needs." He gestured for me to follow him down the hallway to his home office.

The standing desk dominated one side of the room, his laptop open on it. The peace lily sat on a small table near the window, looking lush and healthy. On his desk lay a notepad I hadn't noticed during the desk assembly—cream-colored with a logo in the corner.

I froze, staring at it. A small teddy bear wearing glasses, identical to ProtectorE's profile picture on LittlesOnline. My pulse thundered in my ears.

ProtectorE hadn’t been online at all since he’d said he couldn’t talk to me about Ethan.

"The plant needs exactly one cup of water, every other day," Ethan was saying, seemingly unaware of my reaction. "No more, no less. I've got a measuring cup here specifically for it."

I nodded automatically, still fixated on the notepad. Could it be coincidence? Maybe it was a common logo for play therapists. But the styling was so specific, so identical to the one I'd seen countless times during my online chats.

"Lily? Is that clear?" Ethan's voice pulled me back to the moment.

"Yes, sorry. One cup, every other day." I dragged my eyes away from the notepad. "I can handle that."

He smiled, relieved. "Perfect. I've written the instructions down too, just in case." He picked up the very notepad I'd been staring at and jotted down the watering schedule, then tore off the page and handed it to me.

I took it carefully, as if the paper might burn my fingers. The teddy bear logo was clearly visible in the corner.

"There's one more thing," he said, his tone shifting slightly. "The room at the end of the hall—that's private. I'd appreciate it if you didn't go in there."

My curiosity immediately piqued. "Of course. I wouldn't snoop."

"I didn't think you would," he assured me. "It's just . . . personal items, not fully unpacked yet. Bit of a mess." His explanation sounded reasonable enough, but there was a careful quality to his voice I hadn't heard before.

"Your house, your rules," I said lightly. "I'll just come in, water the plant, and make sure everything's in order."

"I appreciate it more than you know." His smile seemed to hold something unspoken, something that made my skin prickle with awareness.