Chapter 7
Brett
I shoved the weight bar back onto its rack and rolled off the bench, my chest burning from the last rep. It didn’t help. Nothing did. I’d spent all weekend punishing myself in my home gym, running until my legs gave out, lifting until my arms shook, but Maisy was still there, lodged in my brain like a splinter I couldn’t dig out.
"Get it together," I muttered to myself, grabbing a towel and wiping the sweat from my face.
Her wide eyes, that damn smile—soft, sweet, and completely off-limits. I shouldn’t have kissed her. Hell, I shouldn’t even think about kissing her again. And yet, every time I closed my eyes, I felt her lips again, tasted the faint hint of coffee and vanilla on her breath.
I cursed under my breath, tossed the towel into the laundry bin, and grabbed my keys off the counter. Enough. I wasn’t solving anything by sulking like some lovesick teenager. If I wanted to stop this mess before it spiraled further, I had to talk to her, make things clear. Set boundaries. Apologize for crossing lines I never should’ve touched.
It was early Monday morning, and the fire station was quiet when I arrived, just the low hum of the engine bay and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors. Most of the crew wouldn’t roll in for another half hour, but I liked it better this way—quiet, no distractions. I headed straight for the administrative office. If Maisy was here already, we could talk. Now.
The moment I pushed the door open, I knew she’d been there. Her scent lingered—some kind of floral shampoo mixed with coffee—it hit me like a punch to the gut. Her desk looked like it always did: a controlled chaos of papers, pens, and knick-knacks that somehow only she could navigate.
A coffee mug sat near the edge, lipstick smudged on the rim. The steam was gone, leaving only a faint trace of warmth against the cool air. She couldn’t have been far. My pulse kicked up as I stepped inside, scanning the cramped space.
"Maisy?" My voice cut through the silence, rougher than I meant it to be.
Nothing. Just the drone of the fluorescent lights overhead and the faint hum of her computer screen.
I glanced toward the hallway, half hoping I’d see her bounding back with that bright, nervous energy she carried everywhere.
"Maisy?" I tried again, softer this time. Still nothing.
Something about the stillness made my skin prickle. I ran a hand over my face, exhaling hard. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it was better if I didn’t see her at all. But then I caught sight of her notebook lying open on the desk, and my stomach twisted.
Big, bold letters at the top read: " What I Want from a Daddy Dom. "
I froze.
The words hit me like a sucker punch, knocking the air clean out of my lungs. For a second, I thought maybe— maybe —this wasn’t hers. Maybe someone else had left it here by mistake. But no. Maisy’s handwriting was unmistakable, her loopy scrawl curling across the page. My name was written in the margins next to some of the bullet points. " Brett has this ", one note said, underlined twice.
Jesus Christ.
I sank into the nearest chair, the legs scraping against the floor loud enough to make me flinch. My hands gripped the edge of the desk as I stared down at the list. It was . . . detailed. Painfully honest. Traits and wants spelled out in black ink, each one hitting harder than the last.
"Patient."
"Strong."
"Protective."
"Firm, but kind."
My name sat beside nearly every single one, scribbled in her quick shorthand. The more I read, the more my chest tightened, heat creeping up the back of my neck. This wasn't just some vague fantasy she kept locked away. She’d been thinking about me . Imagining me in this role.
"Structure."
"Safety."
"Guidance."
She wanted all of that. From me .
My pulse hammered in my ears. The room felt too small, too hot, her scent still clinging to the air like it was mocking me. I dragged a hand through my hair, trying to process what the hell I was looking at. This wasn’t just some random daydream scrawled in a notebook after a glass of wine. This was deliberate. Intentional. And it screamed one thing loud and clear: Maisy was a Little.
A flood of emotions rushed me all at once—confusion, guilt, protectiveness so fierce it almost scared me. I should’ve looked away. Put the paper down and walked out. But I couldn’t. My eyes were glued to the page, taking in every detail, every word she’d written about what she needed. What she *wanted*.
"Comfort when I feel small."
"Someone who knows when to be firm, but never cruel."
"Someone who will love all of me—the good and the bad."
And then, at the very bottom of the list, scrawled in smaller letters like it was a confession she wasn’t sure she should even write down: " I think Brett already does. "
My throat went dry.
This wasn’t some casual thing for her. This wasn’t just about that kiss in her house or the way she blushed whenever I looked at her for too long. This was deeper. More vulnerable. She saw me as someone who could give her something she’d been craving—and not just physically. She trusted me. And here I was, reading her most private thoughts like a goddamn snoop.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath, scrubbing a hand over my face. My chest ached, tight with emotions I couldn’t untangle. Desire, yeah, that was there—punching through the guilt and confusion like a freight train. But it wasn’t just that. It was this overwhelming need to protect her, to show her she didn’t have to hide this part of herself. That she didn’t have to be afraid.
Maisy wasn’t just the fire chief’s daughter anymore. She wasn’t just the girl with the nervous laugh and big, doe eyes. She was so much more . And now I knew too much to pretend otherwise.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind her was like a gunshot in the silence. I whipped around, the paper still in my hand. Maisy stood there, back pressed to the wooden door as if she could keep the entire world out with just her weight. Her chest rose and fell fast, her cheeks flushed so red it looked like she’d been running.
Her eyes locked on the list in my hand. Horror spread across her face like a slow leak. “Oh my God,” she whispered, voice barely audible. Then louder, sharper, “What are you doing?”
I froze. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. What the hell was I doing?
Maisy surged forward, snatching at the paper, but I held it just out of reach. She wasn’t tall enough to grab it without practically climbing me, and damn if that didn’t make things worse. Her nearness hit me like a tidal wave—soft vanilla and sugar, a scent that clung to her like it was part of her DNA. I swallowed hard, trying to think past the heat radiating off her.
"Maisy, wait—" I started, but she cut me off.
"Give it to me!" Her voice cracked, panic lacing every syllable.
"Maisy." I softened my tone, lowered the paper. I wasn’t trying to embarrass her. Hell, I wasn’t even sure what I was trying to do anymore. "We need to talk about this."
"Talk?" She almost laughed, but it came out strangled. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "There’s nothing to talk about, Brett. Just—" Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. "Just give it to me. Please."
The word please hit me square in the chest. She sounded desperate, like the whole foundation of her world might crumble if anyone else found out. And suddenly, I saw it—the fear living in her wide brown eyes, the way her chin trembled even though she was trying so damn hard to hold it together.
"Maisy," I said again, quieter this time. I folded the paper and held it out to her. "I’m not gonna say anything. Not to your dad, not to anyone. You have my word."
She snatched it from my hand like it was a lifeline, clutching it to her chest. Her shoulders sagged, but she didn’t relax all the way. Didn’t meet my eyes.
"You . . . you can’t tell him," she stammered. "You don’t understand, Brett. If he knew—" Her breath hitched, and she shook her head, words failing her.
"Hey," I said softly, stepping closer. Close enough to see the damp sheen in her eyes, the way her lashes fluttered as she blinked too fast. "I get it. Trust me, I do. This stays between us. No one else is gonna know."
Her gaze flicked up to mine then, disbelieving. "You promise?"
"Cross my heart." I traced an X over my chest, trying for a small smile. It felt weak, but it must’ve worked because some of the tension bled out of her posture.
"Thank you," she breathed, dropping her head for a moment. Her hair fell forward, hiding her face. When she finally looked up again, there was still a storm brewing in her expression, but at least it wasn’t quite as wild. "This is . . . God, this is humiliating."
"Maisy, stop." The words came out firmer than I expected, but I didn’t let myself back down. "You don’t have to feel ashamed. Everyone’s got parts of themselves they don’t show the world. That doesn’t make them wrong. It just makes them private."
"Private," she echoed bitterly, her knuckles whitening around the folded paper. "Yeah, well, not so private now, huh?"
I held the paper loosely, like it might burn me if I gripped it too tight. Maisy’s eyes flicked to my hands and then back to my face, wide and pleading. She looked like a deer caught in headlights, frozen but ready to bolt.
"So . . ." My voice came out rougher than I meant. I cleared my throat and tried again. "So . . . you’re a Little?"
Her breath hitched. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and her cheeks flushed a deep, fiery red. For a second, I thought she might not answer, but then she gave a tiny nod.
"Yeah," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, shaky. "I am."
I stepped closer, slow and careful, like I was approaching a skittish kitten. The hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The air between us felt thick, charged. "How long have you known?" I asked gently.
"Years," she said, her words tumbling over each other in a rush. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if trying to shield herself. Her nails dug into her sleeves. "I—I’ve always been this way, I think. But I never told anyone. Especially not here. Not with Dad—" She broke off, biting her lip so hard I worried it might bleed.
"Maisy," I said softly, tilting my head to catch her gaze. She flinched but finally looked up at me. Her eyes were glassy, tears threatening but not quite spilling over. "Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why keep it hidden?"
"Because." She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "Can you imagine? What people would say? What he’d say?" Her voice cracked on the last word, and I didn’t need her to spell out who she meant. The Chief. Her dad. My boss. A brick wall of stern authority and judgment.
"Hey," I said, voice low, steady. "You don’t have to explain yourself to me. But if you want to talk about it . . . I’m listening."
She hesitated, her fingers twisting together now, fidgeting. Her knuckles were pale from the pressure. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke. "It’s not something people understand. Not easily, anyway. And I just . . . didn’t want to deal with that. The questions. The looks. I didn’t want to risk someone rejecting me because of it. Dad just wants me to be normal, and he’s all I’ve got." Her voice wavered, and she looked down again, her shoulders hunching.
"Maisy," I said, stepping closer until we were only a foot apart. "You don’t have to be afraid right now. Not with me. Okay?"
She swallowed hard and nodded, but the tension in her body didn’t ease. I waited, giving her space, but when she didn’t speak again, I pressed, just a little. "Can you tell me what it means for you? What being a Little feels like? Or what you’re looking for?"
Her blush deepened, creeping all the way to the tips of her ears. "Brett, I can’t—" she started, shaking her head.
"Yes, you can," I interrupted, keeping my voice firm but gentle. "Look, I get that this is personal. I do. But you’ve already trusted me with this much, haven’t you? Let me understand. I’m a Daddy Dom."
Her eyes widened.
“You are?”
“Of course. You probably had an idea, right?”
“I mean,” she bit her lip, “I definitely get a vibe from you.”
“A vibe, huh?”
“You’re stern. Don’t suffer fools gladly. And, you know, I’m attracted to you.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.
“Well. Never mind that. Tell me more about what it means for you to be a Little.”
For a moment, I thought she’d shut down completely. But then she shifted, drawing in a shaky breath. Her hands trembled as they fell to her sides. She still couldn’t meet my eyes, but she started talking.
"I guess . . .it’s like . . . part of me just wants to feel safe. Protected. Like there’s someone who’s got my back, no matter what. Who won’t judge me or push me away when I’m vulnerable." Her voice softened, almost breaking. "I want structure, I guess. Guidance. Comfort. Someone who—" She stopped, pressing her lips together, overwhelmed.
"Someone who what?" I prompted, stepping even closer. I could see the faint freckles dusting her nose, the way her lashes glistened with unshed tears.
"Someone who’ll take care of me," she admitted, voice barely a whisper. "But still respect me. As an adult. I don’t want someone controlling my whole life, okay? I just . . . want to feel like I can let go sometimes. Like I don’t have to carry everything by myself."
My chest tightened, an ache spreading through me. Her words hit like a punch to the gut. How long had she been holding all this inside? How many times had she needed someone and found no one?
"That’s not asking too much," I said quietly. "You deserve that. Everyone does."
She let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her cheek with the heel of her hand. "Yeah, well, try telling that to the world. Or to my dad."
"Forget the world for a minute," I said, my voice firm but warm. "And forget your dad. This is about you, Maisy. No one else."
Her eyes darted to mine, wide and startled. For a moment, we just stood there, the air between us crackling. I wanted to reach out, to pull her into my arms and promise her she’d never have to feel alone again. But I didn’t move. Not yet.
I set the paper down on her desk, careful not to wrinkle it. My fingers lingered on the edge for a beat too long before I forced them away. The air in the room felt heavier now, like we’d crossed some invisible line that couldn’t be undone. Maisy stood inches from me, her breath shallow, her lips pressed together in a thin, uncertain line.
"Maisy," I started, my voice low, rougher than I meant it to be. I cleared my throat. "About the other night...at your house." Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, wide and unblinking. "I shouldn’t have kissed you."
Her brow furrowed, and I saw her jaw tighten. "Why not? You said at the time it was a mistake, but I don’t get it. Why was it so bad to kiss me?" she asked softly, but there was steel beneath the question.
"Because it crossed a line. Your dad trusts me, Maisy. He’s my boss. I had no right to—"
"Stop." She shook her head. Her hand shot up, palm facing me like a halt sign. "Just stop, Brett."
"Maisy—"
"You don’t apologize for that," she cut in, her voice trembling but steadying with each word. "It wasn’t a mistake to me."
Her conviction hit me square in the chest. I took a step back instinctively, needing space to breathe, to think, to resist the pull of her. But she followed, closing the gap between us.
"Maisy . . ." I groaned, dragging a hand through my hair. My pulse thundered in my ears, every muscle in my body coiled tight. "You don’t understand. There are reasons—good reasons—why this can’t happen."
"Then explain them," she challenged, tilting her chin up. Her blue eyes locked onto mine, daring me to try.
"Fine." I exhaled sharply, pacing a few steps before turning back to her. "For starters, you’re the Chief’s daughter. Do you know what kind of position that puts me in? What it would do to him if he found out?"
"That’s his problem, not yours," she shot back without missing a beat.
"Second," I pressed on, ignoring her interruption, "it would violate his trust. And not just his—everyone at the station. They respect me because they think I have good judgment, because they think I can keep my head straight. What happens when they find out I’m—" I stopped myself short, swallowing hard. "When they find out I’m involved with you?"
"Who says they need to find out?" she asked, her tone softer now, almost teasing. I glared at her, and she rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine, maybe they will eventually. So what? You think they’ll all turn on you? You think I care what they say?"
"Maisy, it’s not just about that!" My voice rose, and I immediately regretted it. I blew out a breath, forcing myself to lower my tone. "It’s about you. You’re in a vulnerable position right now—"
"Don’t you dare," she interrupted again, her cheeks flushing with anger. "Don’t you dare try to make this about protecting me. I’m not some fragile little thing that needs saving, Brett."
"That’s not what I meant," I said quickly, though the words didn’t feel convincing even to me. "I just—I don’t want you getting hurt, okay? Not by me, not by anyone else."
"Then stop trying to push me away," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly on the last word.
My stomach twisted, guilt and desire warring inside me. I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Her eyes shimmered, her lips parted slightly, and for a second, I forgot every damn reason why this was supposed to be a bad idea.
Maisy crossed her arms, leaning back against the door like she was barricading us in. Her chin lifted, a spark of defiance lighting up her hazel eyes, and I swear she looked more steady than I felt.
"First of all," she started, her voice cutting through the tight air between us, "I’m an adult, Brett. Full-grown. Last time I checked, that means I get to decide who I want to be with."
"Maisy—"
"Second," she steamrolled right over me, "my dad isn’t the boss of my heart, okay? He’s not even close. And third"—she jabbed a finger toward me—"you, Brett Wilkins, are the last person I’d ever worry about hurting me. You’re standing there acting like you’re some kind of danger, but you’ve already proven you’re the opposite of that."
"That’s not the point," I said, though my voice came out weaker than I intended.
"Isn’t it?" She took a step forward, narrowing the space between us. My chest tightened. "Because for someone who’s so determined to keep me safe, you sure are doing a great job of hurting me right now by trying to push me away."
"Maisy." Her name slipped out, low and rough, but she didn’t stop.
"Look, I trust you," she said firmly, her voice softening but losing none of its conviction. "More than I probably should, honestly. But if you think I’m gonna let fear—or my dad, or the damn rumor mill at the station—decide what I want, then you don’t know me as well as you think you do."
I opened my mouth, but she cut me off with a sly smile. "And since we’re laying it all out here..." Her cheeks flushed pink, but her gaze stayed locked on mine, unwavering. "You pretty much check every single box on my stupid little wish list, Brett. So maybe we should stop pretending you don’t feel it too."
Her words hit me like a damn freight train. My throat went dry.
"Go ahead," she teased, tilting her head. "Tell me I’m wrong."
I couldn’t. Because she wasn’t.
“You’re almost ten years y—”
“No. That won’t wash. You want me. I want you. Who cares about the numbers?”
I clenched my fists at my sides, trying to ground myself in something, anything . But all I could focus on was her—the way her lips curved just slightly, like she knew exactly what she was doing to me. The way her pulse fluttered visibly at the base of her neck. The way her eyes softened, still holding that quiet fire, daring me to stop lying to both of us.
"Jesus, Maisy," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "You don’t make this easy, you know that?"
"It’s not supposed to be easy," she said simply.
"Yeah, well"—I exhaled sharply—"you’re impossible. Makes me think you could do with a little discipline."
"Don’t threaten me with a good time." Her grin widened, just enough to undo me.
And just like that, everything I’d been gripping onto slipped through my fingers. Every excuse, every reason why this shouldn’t work—they all burned away in the heat radiating off her.
"Fine," I admitted, my voice rougher than I intended. "You win, alright? I’ve wanted you, Maisy. For longer than I should’ve. Hell, I’m not even sure when it started—"
"Then stop fighting it," she whispered, stepping closer. Inches. We were down to inches now.
My jaw tightened. Every instinct in me screamed to pull her into my arms, to claim her, to finally stop denying how badly I needed her. But I didn’t move. Not yet.
"Do you have any idea what you’re asking for?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
"Yes," she said without hesitation. Her eyes burned into mine, fierce and unyielding. “I’m asking for you to be my Daddy Dom.”
And I was done for.
"Fuck it."
The words slipped out like a growl, low and rough, before I even realized I’d said them. My feet moved on instinct, closing the inches between us in a heartbeat. Her breath hitched, her lips parting just slightly, and that was all it took to snap the last thread of control I’d been clinging to.
I grabbed her face, my hands framing her cheeks as my mouth crashed into hers. Hard. Desperate. She gasped against my lips, but then she melted into me like she’d been waiting for this just as long as I had—maybe longer.
Her fingers fisted in my shirt, clutching the fabric tight enough to wrinkle it as she pulled me closer. God, she was warm. Soft. The kind of soft that made a man lose every damn sense he thought he had.
I kissed her like she was oxygen and I’d been suffocating for years. She met me with equal fire, her lips moving against mine, her body leaning so close I could feel every curve pressing into me. The faint scent of her shampoo—something sweet, vanilla maybe—mixed with the lingering coffee on her breath. It went straight to my head, spinning everything off its axis.
The office around us blurred, fading into nothing. No radio chatter from down the hall. No hum of fluorescent lights. Just Maisy—just the heat of her mouth, the scrape of her nails through my shirt, the little sound she made when I tilted my head and deepened the kiss.
I should’ve stopped. Should’ve pulled back. But I was too far gone.
Her teeth grazed my bottom lip, playful but enough to send a jolt straight through me. A low, guttural noise escaped my throat, and my hand slid down to her waist, gripping her like she might disappear if I didn’t hold on tight enough.
"Maisy . . ." Her name came out half-murmured, half-growled into the space where our lips met. She whimpered softly in response—a sound so raw and honest it nearly undid me right there.
But then I caught myself. Just barely. I forced myself to pull back, though it felt like tearing apart something vital.
We stood there, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. Her eyes fluttered open, wide and glassy, shining with something between exhilaration and disbelief.
"Don’t you dare," she panted, her voice shaky but firm.
"Don’t I dare what?" I asked, my tone raspier than I meant it to be.
"Stop and apologize." Her hands were still tangled in my shirt, holding on like she wasn’t ready to let go yet.
I swallowed hard, trying to steady the storm raging inside me. "I’m not gonna apologize." My voice dropped low, almost a whisper. "Not for this. Not for you."
She blinked up at me, lips red and slightly swollen from the kiss. Damn, she was beautiful.
"But if we’re doing this"—I leaned in just enough that my breath brushed her cheek—"we’re doing it right."
"Right," she echoed, her voice softer now but no less sure.
I nodded once, slow and deliberate, letting the weight of my words settle between us. This wasn’t just some spur-of-the-moment mistake. This wasn’t casual. If we were stepping into this fire, we weren’t coming back out the same.
Her gaze held mine, steady and unflinching. For all the fear I’d seen in her earlier, it was gone now. What replaced it was something stronger. Fiercer.
"Okay," she said finally, her grip on my shirt loosening but her closeness never wavering.
"Okay," I repeated, like an oath.
And just like that, the air between us shifted again. Terrified. Thrilled. Both of us standing on the edge of something we couldn’t take back.
A silent promise passed between us.
This was only the beginning.