Daddy Next Door

Chapter 3

M y eyes flicked to the clock again—the fifth time in twenty minutes. Ethan had been gone exactly thirty-four hours, and I had promised to water his peace lily today. Such a simple favor for a neighbor, yet my stomach fluttered like I was planning a heist instead of plant care.

"It's just a plant," I muttered, closing my laptop with a definitive click. "Just a stupid plant in a stupid gorgeous house owned by a stupid gorgeous man."

I stretched, my back cracking after six straight hours at my desk. The responsibility weighed on me more than it should. It wasn't the plant—it was the trust. Ethan Hayes, who kept his house as meticulously ordered as his salt-and-pepper stubble, had trusted me with his key.

Me, the woman who—unbeknownst to him—once killed a cactus.

I stood up and walked to my bedroom, staring at my closet. What does one wear to water a plant? Something practical, obviously. But also, what if someone saw me entering Ethan's house?

Why was I overthinking this so much?

I pulled out a pair of well-fitted jeans and a light blue top that brought out my eyes.

Outside, the neighborhood was quiet. A couple of kids rode bikes at the far end of the street, and someone was mowing their lawn two houses down. Normal Sunday afternoon activities. No one would think twice about me walking next door.

The key was exactly where he said it would be, under the loose brick. My fingers trembled slightly as I retrieved it.

"Just water the plant and leave," I reminded myself, slipping the key into the lock. The door swung open with a soft click.

The house was quiet in a way that felt alive, as if it was holding its breath, waiting for its owner to return. Ethan's scent lingered in the air—subtle cologne with notes of cedar and something else I couldn't quite identify. Clean, masculine, comforting.

I stepped inside, measuring cup clutched in my hand. The kitchen gleamed with unused appliances, everything in its place. I completely filled the huge measuring cup, ready to do my duty.

God, this place was so tidy! Not a dish in the sink, not a speck on the countertops. The living room beyond was equally immaculate—books arranged by height on the shelves, throw pillows perfectly positioned on the leather couch.

My apartment, with its organized chaos and colorful clutter, felt like a child's playroom in comparison. Here, every object seemed to have been placed with intention, creating a space that was both masculine and welcoming.

I moved through the house carefully, as if my presence might somehow disrupt its perfect order. The peace lily sat on a side table in the living room, its dark green leaves healthy and vibrant. I approached it slowly, measuring cup extended like an offering.

"Look at you," I whispered to the plant. "He takes good care of you, doesn't he?"

As I carefully poured water into the soil, avoiding the leaves as Ethan had instructed, I noticed a framed photo I hadn't seen before. Ethan with his arm around an older woman—his mother, maybe? They had the same kind eyes. Next to it was another photo of him with a group of colleagues, all wearing lanyards at what looked like a conference.

I wondered what his conference was like right now.

Now I just had the rest of the plants to water.

The bookshelf held psychology texts but also fiction—thrillers mostly, with a few classics mixed in. A notebook lay closed on the coffee table, a pen resting perfectly parallel beside it. There was a softness to the space that belied its order—throw blankets that looked well-used, a chair positioned perfectly by the window that seemed designed for long hours of reading.

Ethan's office sat at the end of the hallway, door slightly ajar as if inviting me in. I hesitated at the threshold, measuring cup still in hand. This room felt more personal than the others—the place where he worked, thought, maybe even revealed more of himself than the carefully curated public spaces. I pushed the door open wider, telling myself I was just being thorough about my plant-watering duties.

The peace lily's twin sat on a corner table near the window, bathed in filtered light. The rest of the office was exactly what I'd expect from Ethan—organized, functional, but with touches of warmth. A large desk dominated one wall, its surface nearly empty save for a closed laptop, a leather-bound planner, and an open book.

I approached the desk, unable to resist looking at the book—a text on psychology, open to a chapter about creating safe spaces for emotional expression. Sticky notes marked several passages, the handwriting precise and slanted. I leaned closer, reading a note in the margin: "Connection between play therapy and adult emotional regulation?"

My fingers hovered over the page, not quite touching. This felt intimate, like reading someone's diary. Yet I couldn't look away.

A half-open drawer caught my eye—the only imperfection in the otherwise immaculate space. Through the gap, I glimpsed splashes of color that seemed out of place in the subdued office. I shouldn't look. This wasn't why I was here.

I pulled the drawer open anyway.

Inside were therapy tools—stress balls in bright colors, fidget toys, a jar of putty, and what looked like small stuffed animals. Tools of his trade, obviously. He'd mentioned working with families and children. These would help put kids at ease.

And adults.

Something about the careful organization, the quality of the items—they didn't look like disposable office supplies. They seemed cherished, arranged with intention. One small plush rabbit sat apart from the others, well-worn as if it had been handled often.

"Focus, Lily," I muttered, closing the drawer and turning back to the plant.

I needed to water it and leave before I invaded Ethan's privacy any further. I stepped carefully around the desk, measuring cup extended. The plant looked healthy, its leaves glossy and upright. I began to pour, taking care not to splash the water.

That's when it happened.

My hip bumped the edge of the desk—not hard, but enough to startle me. My hand jerked, sending water arcing through the air. Time seemed to slow as I watched the liquid splash across my chest and stomach, soaking my light blue top instantly.

"Shit!" I gasped, jumping back.

Too late. The damage was done. Cold water plastered my shirt to my skin, and I looked down to see my pink bra clearly visible through the now-transparent fabric. Water dripped down onto my jeans, creating dark splotches on my thighs.

I stood frozen, holding the now-empty measuring cup, water dripping from my fingertips onto the hardwood floor. Panic bubbled up in my throat. I couldn't go home like this. The shirt was completely see-through, my nipples visibly pebbling against the wet fabric from both the cold water and my sudden anxiety.

"Great job, Lily," I hissed at myself. "Really smooth."

What were my options? I could wait for the shirt to dry, but that could take hours, and the wet fabric was already uncomfortable against my skin. I could call a friend to bring me clothes, but then I'd have to explain why I was in Ethan's house, partially soaked and freaking out.

Or I could borrow something of Ethan's to wear home and return it later.

That last option felt like crossing another boundary, but it seemed like the only practical solution. I also felt like Ethan wouldn’t mind—no doubt he’d want me to do whatever made me feel the most comfortable. I looked down at the growing puddle beneath my feet. And now I had a mess to clean up too.

"Fine. Clothes first, then clean up," I decided.

I peeled the wet shirt away from my skin, grimacing at the cold clamminess. My jeans weren't as bad, just spotted with water, but the shirt was unwearable. After a moment's hesitation, I pulled it over my head.

Standing in Ethan's office in just my bra and jeans felt far more intimate than I was prepared for. My skin prickled with goosebumps—from the air conditioning or from the situation, I wasn't sure. I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly hyper-aware of my body in a way that made my cheeks burn.

I needed to find his laundry room. With wet shirt bunched in one hand, I padded out of the office, leaving a trail of water droplets behind me. The hardwood would be fine, but I'd need to wipe it up before leaving.

Moving through someone else's house half-dressed felt transgressive in a way that made my stomach flip. What if someone could see through the windows? What if Ethan had security cameras? The thought made me walk faster, hunching my shoulders as if that could somehow make me less exposed.

I found the laundry room off the kitchen—another impeccably organized space with detergent lined up by type and purpose. The washer and dryer were high-end models, the kind I'd dreamed about while struggling with my apartment building's ancient communal machines.

I tossed my shirt into the dryer, setting it for twenty minutes. That should be enough to make it wearable again. As I closed the dryer door, I caught my reflection in the small decorative mirror hanging on the wall. My hair was slightly mussed, cheeks flushed pink. The contrast of my pale skin against the black bra made me look vulnerable, younger somehow.

For a flashing moment, I imagined Ethan walking in, finding me like this. The thought sent an unexpected heat between my legs that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

"Stop it," I whispered to myself, turning away from the mirror.

I needed to borrow a shirt and clean up the water before it damaged his floors. Ethan's bedroom would have shirts, but entering his most private space felt wrong. There had to be another option.

I remembered seeing a linen closet in the hallway. Maybe he kept spare clothes there? It was worth checking before I invaded his bedroom.

As I stepped back into the hallway, water from my jeans dripped onto the floor, joining the trail I'd left earlier. I'd need paper towels for that. But first—clothes.

The linen closet yielded towels and sheets, but no clothing. I chewed my lip, considering my options. The dryer would take twenty minutes. I could wait, half-naked in his laundry room, or I could borrow something quickly and put it back before I left.

"Just a t-shirt," I justified to myself, heading toward what I assumed was his bedroom.

The door was closed but not latched. I pushed it open slowly, feeling like an intruder in the most personal part of his home. The room was spacious and minimalist—a king-sized bed with a navy comforter, nightstands with simple lamps, a dresser, and a closet. No personal photos here, no clutter. Just clean lines and subtle masculine energy.

I stepped inside, my bare feet sinking into the plush area rug. The whole room smelled like him, that same cedar and musk. My skin prickled with awareness.

Then, I saw it.

A door.

It was set into the wall adjacent to a bookshelf, painted the same color as the walls. I might never have noticed it if I hadn't been on my knees at this exact angle. There was a small doorknob, no key hole.

Was this the room Ethan had specifically mentioned was off-limits?

This didn't look like a storage room door. It looked like a secret.

The responsible thing would be to finish cleaning, get my shirt, change back, and leave.

Instead, I found myself drawn to the hidden door, curiosity prickling along my skin more insistently than the air conditioning had on my bare flesh. I should have turned away. Instead, my fingers reached out, brushing against the cool metal of the doorknob.

To my surprise, it turned easily in my hand. Not locked. This was a clear boundary. Ethan had trusted me in his home.

But something pulled at me, a curiosity so intense it felt like hunger. What kind of "secret space" did a psychologist need? What was so private he'd specifically warned me away?

I hesitated, my hand still on the knob. I closed my eyes, warring with myself.

"Just one quick look," I whispered, as if saying it aloud made it less of an invasion. "Five seconds, then I'll close it and never look again."

Before I could reconsider, I pushed the door open a crack. Something pastel caught my eye—a soft lavender color on what looked like a wall.

My breath caught in my throat.

The room that greeted me was awash in gentle colors—lavender walls with white trim, accented with touches of mint green and pale yellow. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting the space in a dreamy glow. At first glance, it might have been a guest room decorated for a child—but the proportions were all wrong. Adult-sized. Inviting.

A bookshelf lined one wall, filled not with psychology texts but with children's books. Not just any children's books—vintage hardcovers, classics arranged by color to create a rainbow effect. Next to them sat coloring books and a wooden box that likely contained art supplies.

My feet carried me into the room without conscious command. The door swung shut behind me with a soft click that made me jump.

"What is this?" I murmured, though I already knew.

My eyes landed on a comfortable reading chair in the corner, large enough to hold two people—or one adult holding someone in their lap. A crocheted blanket in a star pattern was folded neatly over one arm. Beside it stood a small table with a night light shaped like a crescent moon.

I moved deeper into the room, my heart hammering against my ribs. A white dresser with pastel knobs stood against the far wall. I shouldn't open it. I'd already gone too far.

My hands trembled as I pulled open the top drawer.

Inside, folded with military precision, lay what appeared to be adult-sized pajamas. Not sexy lingerie or regular sleepwear, but honest-to-god footie pajamas with prints of dinosaurs, stars, and cartoon characters. I lifted one out—soft flannel with a zipper down the front. It would fit someone my size.

I held it against my chest, the material cloud-soft against my skin. A wave of longing washed over me so intense I had to lean against the dresser for support.

The second drawer contained more specialized items—adult-sized onesies with snaps at the crotch for easy changing. They were high quality, clearly expensive, with delicate embroidery and satin ribbons at the cuffs. These weren't joke items or cheap Halloween costumes. These were made to be worn, to be comfortable, to make someone feel small and cared for.

By the time I reached the third drawer, I was no longer surprised to find pacifiers—several of them, in different colors and designs, all clearly made for adult mouths. They rested on a bed of silk scarves, arranged by color. Beside them lay hair accessories—ribbons, barrettes with stars and hearts, soft headbands.

Each item was a revelation, each drawer a deeper glimpse into a world I recognized from my online life but had never seen manifested so completely in physical form.

The room was a little's paradise, designed by someone who understood the need to escape adult responsibilities, who knew how to create a safe space for vulnerability and care.

Designed by Ethan.

My Ethan. My neighbor.

I should get out of here. As I turned to leave, to escape before I discovered anything else I wasn't prepared to process, I noticed something I'd missed.

A seam in the wall, almost invisible unless you were looking for it. Another door, this one hidden even within the hidden room.

My curiosity, already a blazing thing, roared higher. I approached the wall, running my fingers along the seam until I found a recessed handle. It pulled open easily, revealing a space beyond that made my knees weak.

If the first room had been a little's paradise, this was a caregiver's domain.

The centerpiece was unmistakable—an adult-sized crib with high rails, painted white with custom bedding in a star pattern that matched the blanket in the reading chair. The mattress looked thick and comfortable, covered in waterproof material that wouldn't be obvious under sheets.

Beside it stood an adult-sized changing table, the kind used in medical facilities but modified to look less institutional. Padded top, restraints disguised as decorative straps, shelves beneath holding what appeared to be adult diapers and changing supplies arranged in wicker baskets with gingham liners.

Everything was immaculate. Everything was high-quality. Everything showed thought, care, and significant investment.

I stepped into this inner sanctum. This wasn't just a playroom or a kinky sex dungeon. This was a space created with love, designed to meet needs most people didn't even acknowledge existed.

A shelf held adult-sized bottles, some plain, others decorated with stars and hearts. Next to them sat sippy cups with cartoon characters. Beneath them, neatly folded cloth diapers in pastel colors, the fabric looking butter-soft even from a distance.

In the corner stood another piece of furniture I didn't immediately recognize—something like a desk but with restraints at strategic points. A discipline bench, I realized, my cheeks heating. For spankings and other forms of punishment.

Beside it was a cabinet, this one locked. Unlike the hidden door to the room, this lock had a key inserted, as if Ethan never expected anyone to get this far into his sanctuary. The key taunted me, an invitation and a final boundary all at once.

I'd already crossed so many lines. What was one more?

My hand shook as I turned the key. The cabinet doors swung open to reveal implements of discipline arranged with the same meticulous care as everything else in the rooms.

Paddles of various materials—leather, wood, acrylic. Straps. A few canes. Soft floggers in bright colors that somehow made them seem less intimidating. Everything was clean, well-maintained, and arranged by size and purpose.

On the next shelf sat items clearly meant for restraint—leather cuffs lined with soft material, silken ropes in pastel colors, blindfolds that looked like sleep masks. These items were separate from the age-play elements in the outer rooms but clearly part of the same dynamic—the caregiver's tools for establishing boundaries and providing discipline.

The bottom shelf held items more explicitly sexual—dildos and vibrators in non-threatening colors and shapes, small plugs with jeweled ends, bottles of lubricant. These weren't displayed prominently but stored with the same thoughtful organization as everything else.

I closed the cabinet quickly, turning the key. Some boundaries should remain, even in this moment of discovery.

I stood in the center of the nursery, taking it all in. This room represented thousands of dollars in equipment, furniture, and supplies. More than that, it represented a commitment to a lifestyle, a way of caring for someone that went beyond the superficial.

My heart pounded in my ears as pieces clicked into place—Ethan's profession as a child psychologist specializing in play therapy. His natural protective instincts. The way he seemed to see through people to what they needed rather than what they said they wanted.

Suddenly, his interest in me took on new dimensions. Had he somehow sensed my little side? Had he been drawn to me because he recognized something in me that matched what he needed to give?

I moved back to the crib, running my fingers along the smooth wooden rails. They were solid, built to hold an adult's weight. The mattress was firm but yielding when I pressed against it.

A glint of color caught my eye—something hanging from the rails. I leaned closer. A small plush rabbit hung there, attached by a ribbon. It was identical to the one I'd seen in Ethan's desk drawer, but this one was newer, tags still attached. As if it was waiting for someone.

My eyes burned suddenly, tears threatening. The care evident in these rooms overwhelmed me. Someone had created this space with love, with intention, with deep understanding of needs most people kept hidden.

I imagined Ethan here, arranging each item with precision, perhaps thinking of some future little he hadn't yet found. Or had he? The rabbit in his drawer suggested experience. Had there been others who had shared this space with him?

A pang of jealousy surprised me, followed by a wave of longing so intense it made me gasp. I hadn't allowed myself to fully explore my little tendencies—a few online conversations, some private moments alone in my apartment with a stuffed animal and a coloring book. Nothing like this immersive paradise.

I picked up one of the bottles from the shelf, holding it in my hands, testing its weight. It was heavy glass, designed to be held by adult hands while feeding someone else. The nipple was larger than a baby's bottle but shaped similarly. I ran my thumb across it, imagining how it would feel.

My online conversations with ProtectorE flashed through my mind—his gentle encouragement when I'd mentioned wanting to try age regression more deeply, his understanding of the comfort it provided. "Sometimes the strongest people need a safe space to be small," he'd written once. "There's no shame in needing care."

I set the bottle down carefully, exactly where I'd found it. My hand trailed over the changing table, the crib rails, the soft blankets. Each item spoke of care, of attention to detail, of understanding.

I needed to leave. Now. Before I touched anything else, before I gave in to the urge to climb into that crib and see how it felt, before I lost myself completely in the fantasy these rooms represented.

With one last, lingering look, I backed out of the nursery, pulling the hidden door closed. I smoothed the dinosaur pajamas once more before returning them to their drawer. Each item went back exactly as I'd found it, my graphic designer's eye for detail ensuring nothing looked disturbed.

I slipped out of the little room, closing the door behind me, my heart still racing with the magnitude of what I'd discovered. What this meant. What possibilities it opened.

Back in the office, I stood for a moment, trying to compose myself. My skin felt too tight, my thoughts a whirlwind. I needed to get my shirt, change back, and leave before I processed any of this.

But as I turned to head to the laundry room, a deep voice froze me in place.

"Oh dear, looks like someone needs a punishment."

I whirled around, my heart jumping into my throat. Ethan stood in the doorway, his broad frame nearly filling it. His face was calm, but his eyes—those penetrating blue eyes—burned with an intensity I'd never seen before. I was acutely aware of my state: bra clearly visible, legs still wet, my hair disheveled from changing clothes. Caught.

"Ethan," I gasped, my voice coming out higher than normal. “You’re back early!”

“Mmhmm. Conference was kinda dull.”

"I—I can explain."

He didn't move from the doorway. His gaze traveled slowly from my face down to my bare stomach and back up again, lingering for a second on my breasts. He was dressed in business casual—dark slacks and a blue button-down that matched his eyes, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He'd been at a conference. He shouldn't be home yet.

"Can you?" he asked, his voice deeper than I remembered, with an edge I'd never heard before. Not anger, exactly. Something more controlled. More dangerous.

I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly aware that my bra would be visible through the thin gray fabric of his shirt. "There was an accident. With the water. For your plant." The words tumbled out, disconnected and inadequate.

His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. "I can see that." His eyes flicked to the floor where faint water marks still showed despite my cleaning attempts. "And that explains why you're almost nude. In my house."

The way he said "my house" sent a shiver down my spine—possessive, intimate.

"Yes," I said, swallowing hard. "My clothes are in your dryer. I'll change back right away."

Still, he didn't move from the doorway. "And were you in my 'workshop', Lily?"

The way he said my name—soft yet expectant—made my stomach flip. He knew. Of course he knew. The door had been closed when he left. Now it wasn't.

I could lie. Say I was looking for cleaning supplies. But standing there in his shirt, caught red-handed, a lie seemed pointless and small.

"Yes," I admitted, lifting my chin slightly. "I was curious."

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise at my honesty, perhaps. He took a step into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the silence.

"Curiosity can be dangerous," he said, moving closer. Not threatening, but deliberate. Each step measured. "Especially when it involves other people's private spaces."

I stood my ground, though every instinct screamed to back away, to apologize, to run. "I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked."

He stopped a few feet away from me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Up close, I could see the fatigue around his eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. He must have come straight from the conference.

"What did you think?" he asked quietly. "Of what you saw?"

The question caught me off guard. I'd expected anger, embarrassment, perhaps an immediate demand for me to leave. Not this calm inquiry about my opinion.

"I—" I hesitated, unsure how honest to be. But his eyes held mine, patient and unwavering, demanding truth. "It was beautiful. Thoughtful. Every detail so carefully chosen."

Something in his posture relaxed slightly, though his gaze remained intense. "You weren't shocked? Disgusted?"

I shook my head, my throat suddenly tight with emotion. "No. Not at all."

He took another step closer. "Then what were you, Lily?"

The air between us seemed to thicken, charged with something electric and inevitable. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was sure he could hear it.

"Envious," I whispered, the truth pulling from me against my will. "Recognized."

His eyes widened slightly, the only indication that my answer had surprised him. "Recognized," he repeated, the word a caress.

"Yes." My voice was barely audible now. "Like someone had built a room out of the inside of my head. A place I'd imagined but never seen."

Ethan's expression softened, vulnerability flickering across his features before the controlled mask returned. "That's . . . interesting."

The hint was there—a question, an invitation to confess what else I might be hiding. My little side. My online identity. The things I'd shared with ProtectorE but kept hidden from everyone else in my life.

"Maybe I know a little more about that stuff than you might expect," I said, surprising myself with the boldness. "Maybe you saw that."

A slow smile spread across his face, genuine this time. "Maybe I did."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. With a few taps, he held it up for me to see. The Little Online forum. A private message thread. My username at the top: StarryLittle.

My breath caught. "You're—"

"ProtectorE," he confirmed, watching my reaction carefully. "I suspected about a week ago, after your new neighbor."

The pieces fell into place—the similar speech patterns, the careful way he asked questions, the feeling of being truly seen in our conversations.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked.

"I should have done. It’s why I stopped talking you as ProtectorE. It felt wrong. Now, why didn't you?" he countered gently. "We all have our reasons for keeping certain parts of ourselves private, don't we? I needed to be sure before approaching you about something so personal."

I swallowed hard, hyper-aware of my position—in his house, wearing his clothes, caught trespassing in his most private space. Yet somehow, I didn't feel afraid. Vulnerable, yes. Exposed, certainly. But not threatened.

"How long have you known? That I'm . . . that I like . . ." The words stuck in my throat.

"That you're a little?" he finished for me, his voice soft but matter-of-fact. "I had suspicions when we first met. Something in your eyes. The way you responded to certain tones or gestures. But I wasn't certain."

He stepped closer still, close enough now that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "I've been very careful, Lily. In our neighborhood interactions. In our online chats. I didn't want to frighten you away."

His proximity made it hard to think straight. I was acutely aware of our height difference, how I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. How easily he could envelop me in his arms if he chose to.

"Is that why you asked me to water your plant?" I asked. "To see how I'd react to being in your space?"

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Partially. The conference was real. The plant does need water. But yes, I was curious about you. About how you might respond to the subtle hints in my home."

"Hints?" I echoed.

"The therapy toys in my drawer. The books on my shelves. Small things that might catch the attention of someone attuned to that dynamic." His eyes crinkled slightly. "Though I admit, I didn't expect you to find the room itself."

Heat flamed in my cheeks. "I'm sorry. That was wrong of me."

"Yes," he agreed, his tone shifting subtly, becoming firmer. "It was."

That simple acknowledgment of my transgression sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with desire. In that moment, he wasn't just Ethan my neighbor or even ProtectorE my online friend. He was the Daddy Dom whose sanctuary I'd invaded.

"Like I said, someone needs a punishment," he said again, repeating the words that had frozen me in place minutes earlier.

This time, I recognized the careful testing in his tone—checking my reaction, offering an opening without pushing. My body responded instantly, a rush of heat between my legs, a tightening in my chest.

"I broke the rules," I admitted, my voice small.

"Yes, you did, Starry," he said softly, using my online name for the first time out loud.

The name hit me like a physical touch. Starry. My little self. The part of me that craved guidance and structure and care. The part I'd kept hidden behind a screen name and anonymous posts.

"You know what happens to little girls who break the rules," he continued, his voice gentle but firm.

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

He reached out slowly, telegraphing his movement, giving me time to pull away if I wanted. His fingers brushed against my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Just like in my fantasy, but real. Solid. Present.

"But that's a conversation for when you're properly dressed and we both have clear heads," he said, his voice returning to something closer to his normal neighbor tone. "Don't you think?"

The abrupt shift left me dizzy, caught between disappointment and relief. He wasn't going to act on this tension between us. Not yet. Not like this.

"Yes," I agreed, finding my voice. "That would be better."

His hand dropped away from my face, but his eyes held mine, full of promises and possibilities. "Your shirt should be dry by now. Why don't you change and we can talk? Really talk. No more secrets or separate identities."

I nodded, grateful for the reprieve even as part of me ached for him to pull me closer rather than giving me space.

"Okay," I said simply.

He stepped back, creating distance between us. "I'll be in the kitchen. Take your time."

Whatever happened next, there would be no more hiding.