Chapter 6
E verything had to be perfect.
I stood in the center of my living room, scanning every corner with a critical eye. The coffee table gleamed under the soft light of the overhead fixture, its surface cleared except for three neatly stacked binders, each labeled in bold print.
I adjusted one of them slightly, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the table. The faint hum of jazz drifted through the room, smooth and steady, filling the otherwise quiet space. It wasn’t too much, I told myself—just enough to set a professional tone. At least, that’s what I kept repeating.
The fridge door clicked shut as I grabbed the last two bottles of sparkling water and placed them on the kitchen counter. They were cold, condensation already forming on the glass.
Everything was in order.
Precisely as planned.
And yet, my stomach twisted, anticipation curling low in a way I stubbornly tried to ignore. This wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything but work. Work I had carefully orchestrated to keep us focused and far removed from any lingering . . . distractions.
When the doorbell rang, the sound broke through my thoughts like a crack of thunder. My pulse stuttered, an involuntary surge of energy rushing through me. Wiping my palms on the sides of my slacks, I crossed the room and opened the door.
And there she was.
Rebekah stood on the porch, framed by the warm glow of the evening light spilling from inside. Her pencil skirt hugged her hips in a way I couldn’t quite ignore, and the blouse she wore dipped just enough to tease without being overt. Her dark hair, usually loose or pinned haphazardly, was swept into a sleek style that revealed the delicate line of her neck. A touch of glossy lipstick caught the light as she offered a tentative smile, and something in my chest tightened.
"Hi, Luca," she said, her voice soft but clear.
"Rebekah." My throat felt dry, and I cleared it quickly, motioning for her to step inside. "Come in."
She moved past me, her heels clicking softly against the polished wood floor. The faint scent of vanilla trailed in her wake, subtle but intoxicating. I closed the door behind her, taking a half-second longer than necessary before turning back around. Professional, I reminded myself. Keep it professional.
"Nice place," she said lightly, glancing around with what I thought might be genuine curiosity. But when her gaze flickered briefly to the binders on the coffee table, then back to me, I caught the hint of nerves in her expression. She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, and I realized I hadn’t spoken yet.
"Thank you. It still feels new to me, but I’m getting it the way I like it," The words came out steadier than I’d expected, though my pulse had yet to return to normal. I gestured toward the couch. "We can set up over here. I’ve got everything ready."
"Of course you do," she murmured, almost to herself. There was a faint quirk at the corner of her mouth, but she didn’t elaborate. Instead, she stepped further into the room, and I noticed the way her posture straightened as if she were steeling herself.
I followed, keeping a careful distance, jaw tightening when I caught my eyes drifting where they shouldn’t.
Rebekah perched on the far end of the couch, her knees pressed together, her bag tucked neatly at her feet. Her fingers smoothed over the fabric of her skirt, a nervous tell that didn’t quite match the confidence she’d walked in with.
"Thank you," she said softly, her voice dipping beneath the hum of jazz filtering through the room.
"Of course." I took my seat opposite her, leaving what felt like miles of space between us. The distance was deliberate—intentional—but it didn’t stop me from noticing the way her gaze kept darting around the room. She lingered on the framed artwork above the fireplace, the minimalist lines of the furniture, the pristine arrangement of the binders on the coffee table.
"Your place is very . . . put-together." She gestured vaguely toward the wall. "The art’s nice. Modern, but not cold."
"Thanks." I let the corner of my mouth lift, just enough to soften the air between us. "It belonged to my grandmother. She had an eye for balance."
"She must’ve passed that down to you." Her lips curved faintly, but there was a tension in her shoulders she couldn’t quite shake. "Everything here feels so ordered. It’s impressive."
"I like order. Some people find it boring. But in my experience, the more ordered your life, the more fun you can have.” I hoped I didn’t seem patronizing. "Shall we get started?" I gestured to the binders, hoping to steer us back into safer territory.
"Right. Yes." She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder, sliding it across the cushion between us. Her movements became more fluid as she opened it, revealing a stack of hand-drawn sketches.
“You did some homework?”
She blushed, nodded. "I wanted to show you these before we finalize anything with the vendors. Just some ideas for the booth decorations."
Her hesitation melted away as she flipped through the pages, each one bringing a new spark to her expression. "So, I was thinking we could have these collaborative murals—big panels where people can add their own touches throughout the day. Something interactive. And for the kids, maybe art stations? Finger painting, chalk outlines. I want it to feel alive, you know? Like everyone’s contributing to something bigger."
Her enthusiasm was contagious, pulling me in despite myself. I leaned forward, taking the folder from her hands to study the sketches more closely. Bright colors leapt off the page—whimsical patterns, bold lettering, playful designs. One draft showed a winding path of signs shaped like paintbrushes leading toward the booths, another a central mural with the words "Small Falls Creates" written in vibrant block letters.
"These are . . ." I paused, searching for the right words. "They’re good. Really good." I glanced up, catching the way her cheeks flushed at the praise.
"Thanks," she said quickly, her smile flickering but unsure. "I mean, it’s just rough stuff. Not everything’s finalized. And I know my handwriting’s kind of messy—"
"Rebekah." I cut her off gently, holding up one of the sketches. "This is thoughtful work. You’ve got a great sense of color and theme here. These ideas will make the event feel special. People will want to support the community center."
Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, I thought she might argue. Instead, she ducked her head, fidgeting with the hem of her blouse. "You really think so?"
"You’ve got vision. Don’t second-guess yourself."
She met my gaze then, cautious but curious, as if she were waiting for the other shoe to drop—for me to follow the compliment with some undermining comment about her lack of organization or reliability. When I didn’t, the wariness in her softened, though it didn’t disappear completely.
"Well," she said after a beat, her fingers tracing the edge of the folder, "I’m glad you think it works. I wasn’t sure you’d go for something this unconventional."
"Unconventional gets attention," I replied simply. "And that’s what we want, isn’t it?"
"Yeah," she murmured. Her lips twitched into a small, private smile, and for the first time since stepping into my house, she looked less like she was bracing herself for criticism and more like she belonged here.
"Let’s start plugging these ideas into the timeline," I suggested, reaching for one of the binders. "We’ll need to account for material orders and setup time."
"Okay," she agreed, scooting closer—not much, but enough to close some of the gap between us. As she watched me flip through the spreadsheets, I caught the way her posture eased, the earlier tension giving way to something resembling trust.
Half an hour passed in a steady rhythm of flipping pages, exchanging quick questions, and scribbling notes. Rebekah sat cross-legged on the couch now, leaning forward slightly as she tapped a pen against her lips, her other hand trailing along the edge of one of her sketches.
There was something so innocent and child-like about her. I could see that she was fully immersed in what she was doing. It was like the outside world didn’t exist. Occasionally, I’d glance up from the spreadsheet to catch her murmuring calculations under her breath or furrowing her brow at some detail that didn’t quite fit.
"Okay," she said, straightening and brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "If we can get the sponsors confirmed by next Friday, then volunteers should be able to start setting up booths the week after."
"That works," I replied, marking the date into the timeline. My tone was calm, deliberate—professional. The boundaries were holding, though my awareness of her had started to creep toward dangerous territory.
"Good," she murmured, exhaling like she'd just climbed a mountain. She set her folder down on the coffee table and clasped her hands in her lap. A beat of silence stretched out between us, punctuated only by the faint hum of the jazz playing in the background.
Then, without warning, she blurted, "You’re a Daddy Dom, right?"
The question hit me like a cold gust of wind. My pen froze mid-stroke, and I looked up sharply, meeting her wide-eyed gaze. Her cheeks flushed immediately, but she forged ahead, her words tumbling over each other in a rush.
"Not that it’s any of my business or anything! It’s just—people talk, you know? Dwight mentioned it once, and Lucy kind of hinted at it, and . . . well, I was just curious. About how that fits with . . ." She gestured vaguely toward me, her voice faltering. "You know. The whole . . . organized-and-intense-lawyer vibe."
I set the pen down carefully, taking a moment to compose myself. This was thin ice—no, thinner than thin ice. Razor-thin glass over the depths of something I wasn’t ready to confront, especially not here, not now.
"Rebekah," I began evenly, though my fingers curled into my knees. "This doesn’t seem like the kind of conversation we need to be having."
"Sorry," she said quickly, raising her hands as if to ward off my disapproval. But then, as if her curiosity got the better of her, she leaned forward. "It’s just—I mean, is it true?"
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. There was no use dodging the question; she clearly wasn’t going to let it go. "Yes," I admitted finally, my voice low but firm. "I identify as a Daddy Dom."
Her reaction was immediate. She straightened, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, her chin lifting in defiance. "Well, just so we’re clear," she said, her tone sharper than before, "I’m not looking for someone to boss me around. I’m an independent Little, okay? I don’t need anyone telling me what to do or how to live my life."
I raised an eyebrow, half-amused despite myself. Her indignation was almost endearing, though there was no mistaking the tension simmering beneath it.
"Noted," I said dryly. "But for the record, being a Daddy Dom isn’t about ‘bossing someone around.’"
"Sure," she shot back, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. "But it’s still structure and rules and all that, right? And I don’t exactly thrive on structure." She cracked a self-deprecating smile, her arms loosening slightly. "I mean, you’ve seen me. Scatterbrained brat, remember?"
"Vividly," I said, the corner of my mouth twitching upward despite myself.
"I’m not exactly . . . Daddy’s girl material, if that’s even a thing."
“Hmm. I think someone like you is a prime candidate for having a Daddy Dom, actually.” I couldn’t help but say it, but the moment I did, I knew it had been a mistake.
"Okay," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "So… here’s the thing." She paused, biting her lip, and I waited, forcing myself to keep still despite the way my curiosity sharpened. "I haven’t had a Daddy Dom in . . . well, a while."
The admission hung between us like a fragile ornament, delicate and unexpected. I nodded, inviting her to go on.
"Sometimes," she continued, her tone hesitant but more resolute now, "I do miss it. That kind of guidance, I guess you’d call it. Someone who can steady me when my head gets too loud, you know?" She laughed awkwardly, though there was no humor in it. "Not that I can’t handle things on my own. I mean, I have to— I do —but it’s exhausting sometimes."
The tremor in her voice caught me off guard, threading through the spaces where her usual bravado would stand tall.
I was surprised she was talking to me about this, honestly. I hadn’t been expecting it. My chest tightened as I watched her fidget, her hands dropping to her lap, knuckles brushing over the soft fabric of her skirt.
"That’s part of why this fundraiser matters to me so much," she said, her words picking up speed, as if afraid she might lose the courage to say them if she slowed down. "The Littles League at the community center—it’s not just about the crafts or the silly movie nights or even the playdates. It’s about having a place where people like me can feel safe. Like we’re not weird or broken or—" She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "It’s just important, okay? And if these renovations don’t happen, that space could disappear. And with it, all those connections."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she blinked rapidly, clearly trying to will away the tears threatening to surface.
Leaning forward, I braced my elbows on my knees, grounding myself against the swell of emotions surging inside me. "I hear you. And I want you to know that what you’re describing—that connection, that sense of safety—it’s not about control or bossing someone around. Not for me, anyway."
She glanced at me sideways, skepticism tightening her brow, but she didn’t interrupt.
"Being a Daddy Dom," I continued carefully, "is about providing exactly what you’re talking about: structure, yes, but also unwavering support. Acceptance. It’s about being steady when someone else needs it—not because they’re incapable, but because everyone deserves to have someone in their corner."
Her expression softened, though her lips pressed into a thin line, as if she were trying not to give too much away. Still, I caught the faintest glimmer of understanding in her eyes, and it made my heart thud harder than I wanted to admit.
"I admire the way you fight for what you care about, even when it scares you."
Her cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head, her hair spilling forward slightly to shield her face. "I’m not sure anyone’s ever put it that nicely," she mumbled.
"Maybe they should have," I replied, unable to stop the warmth creeping into my tone.
The silence between us grew heavy, the kind that pressed against my chest and made it harder to breathe. Rebekah sat across from me, her hands fidgeting with the edge of a folder on her lap. I should’ve said something—anything—to cut through the tension—but instead, I found myself staring at her lips. They were slightly parted, soft and flushed, the faintest hint of gloss catching the light.
I dragged my gaze away, forcing my focus back to the coffee table littered with fundraiser materials. But the spreadsheets and timelines blurred together. Her presence was impossible to ignore, like a magnet pulling at the edges of my resolve.
"Maybe—" Her voice broke the quiet, hushed and hesitant, but it still sent a jolt through me. "Maybe you’re right. Maybe a Daddy Dom would be good for me."
I looked up sharply. She wasn’t looking at me—her eyes were locked on the binder in front of her as though it held all the answers she didn’t want to say out loud. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, and when she finally glanced my way, the vulnerability in her expression hit me like a punch to the gut.
"Rebekah," I started, but before I could figure out what to say next, she moved.
"Sorry," she mumbled, leaning forward suddenly. "Dropped my pen."
Her hand reached for it, but the motion was quick and unsteady. The pen rolled just out of reach, and as she shifted again, she lost her balance. Time seemed to slow as she tipped toward me, her body pitching awkwardly off the couch.
"Whoa—" My reflexes kicked in. I caught her by the waist, my hands firm as I steadied her.
She gasped softly, her palms landing against my chest to brace herself. For a moment, neither of us moved. Her face was inches from mine, so close I could see the faint freckles scattered over her nose and smell the vanilla of her perfume. Her wide eyes met mine, startled and unsure, and I realized my thumb had brushed against the bare skin beneath her blouse.
"Are you okay?" I asked, my voice lower than I intended.
"Y-yeah," she stammered, her breath hitching as she tried to push herself upright. But she didn’t move away—not really. Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of my shirt, and her pulse beat rapidly under my palm where I still held her.
"Careful," I murmured, trying to sound calm even as my own heart pounded. I wasn’t just talking about her pen.
"Thanks," she whispered, barely audible. Her gaze flickered to my mouth, just for a split second, and the air between us turned electric.
Her breath came shallow and unsteady, her eyes wide as they searched mine. For a moment, I thought she might pull back, but instead, Rebekah’s lips parted, trembling with words she seemed unsure about voicing.
"I—" She swallowed hard, her fingers still gripping my shirt like an anchor. Her voice dropped to a whisper, fragile yet steady enough to make my chest tighten. "I do . . . want a Daddy Dom."
The weight of her admission hung between us, each word sinking into me, heavy and undeniable. I couldn’t look away from her, the flush creeping up her neck, the vulnerability in her gaze.
"But—" Her voice caught, and she licked her lips, glancing down for a fraction of a second before meeting my eyes again. "It scares me. I don’t—I’ve never really been able to accept it. That kind of security. That kind of discipline."
"Rebekah," I began, my grip on her waist faltering slightly as I struggled to process the storm of feelings surging through me.
"Please, let me finish," she whispered, her hand tightening on my chest as if to hold me in place. "I’m scared, but part of me—" She hesitated, her brow furrowing. "Part of me wants it. Wants a guiding hand. A firm hand."
Her words hit me like a thunderclap, reverberating through every carefully constructed wall I’d built around myself. My hold on her waist instinctively firmed, grounding both of us in the moment.
"Rebekah," I said again, softer this time, my voice raspier than I intended. I exhaled slowly, trying to steady my own breathing. "You’re not the only one who’s wary."
Her brows knit together, confusion flickering across her face.
"My life..." I paused, searching for the right words. "It’s chaotic enough as it is. I’ve spent years keeping things orderly, controlled. And you…" I shook my head slightly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "You’re everything I told myself to avoid—messy, impulsive, unpredictable."
A flash of indignation sparked in her eyes, but before she could speak, I continued.
"Yet from the moment I met you, there’s been something—" I swallowed thickly, feeling the words catch in my throat. "An electricity I can’t ignore."
Her lips parted, a soft inhale escaping her as her expression softened, the defiance melting into something else entirely. Vulnerability. Hope.
The air between us crackled, alive and charged, pulling me toward her even as my mind screamed for caution.
For one agonizing heartbeat, I stayed frozen, teetering on the edge of a decision I knew I couldn’t take back. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I leaned forward, closing the distance between us.
The first brush of my lips against hers was tentative, testing, but the spark that followed was anything but. The kiss deepened almost immediately, gentle yet searing, a release of every ounce of tension that had simmered between us since the day we met.
She made a small, surprised sound against my mouth, her hands curling tighter into the fabric of my shirt. I felt her lean into me, her body softening, yielding, and it ignited something primal in me, something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in far too long.
The world around us—the fundraiser materials, the spreadsheets, the perfectly arranged binders—faded into nothingness. All that mattered was the heat of her lips, the way her breath mingled with mine, and the undeniable pull that had brought us here despite every reason it shouldn’t have.
I cupped the back of her head with one hand, my fingers sliding into the silken waves of her hair, while my other hand steadied her at the small of her back. Her body fit against mine like she was meant to be there, and for that brief, reckless moment, I let myself believe it.
Her breath was still warm on my lips when the weight of what I’d just done crashed into me like a runaway freight train. I pulled back abruptly, hands still resting on her waist but no longer grasping, as if distance alone could undo what had already happened.
"Rebekah," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. I cleared my throat, trying to steady the uneven rhythm of my breathing. "I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened. Boundaries."
Her eyes widened, then lowered quickly to where her fingers clung to my shirt. She released the fabric and took an unsteady step back, her cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted. It was like every inch of her was caught between mortification and something else—something that mirrored the pull I couldn’t quite repress.
"I know," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze darted up to meet mine, then skittered away again. "It’s not your fault, though." She hesitated, biting her bottom lip in a way that made it impossible not to notice how swollen it looked now. "I wanted it too."
Professionalism.
Restraint.
Every perfectly ordered rule I’d laid out in my head before this meeting—obliterated by one impulsive moment.
"Still," I said finally, dragging a hand down my face, "we can’t do this. Not now, not like this. We’ve got too much riding on the fundraiser, and—" My words faltered under the intensity of her gaze. "And it’s complicated."
"Complicated," she repeated, her tone somewhere between agreement and quiet resignation. She nodded, straightening her spine as though physically willing herself to regain control. "Right. You’re right. This is— yeah."
I stepped back further, giving her space—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally. She deserved that, even if some selfish part of me wanted to close the gap again, consequences be damned. Instead, I gestured lightly toward the coffee table, where our meticulously organized notes and schedules waited, painfully mundane in contrast to the chaos swirling between us.
"Let’s focus on wrapping this up," I said, forcing calm into my voice. "We still need to finalize the sponsor outreach plan."
"Right," she said again, rubbing her palms against the sides of her pencil skirt. She moved to sit at the couch, hesitating only briefly before perching on the very edge of the cushion. By the time I sat down opposite her, the careful distance between us felt like a chasm.