Chapter 11
Maisy
B rett knocked twice, short and firm, before I even made it halfway to the door. My fingers fumbled with the lock, nerves buzzing under my skin. When I swung it open, there he was—broad shoulders filling the frame like he owned the whole evening. His smile hit me first: warm, easy, the kind that made you feel like everything else could wait.
He wasn’t wearing a dinner jacket today, but somehow, his simple red and black plaid shirt looked even sexier than his fancy get-up from yesterday.
"Hey there," he said, voice low and smooth. His eyes flicked over me, quick but intentional, landing back on mine with a glint of approval. I was wearing a simple outfit, too—a breezy orange sundress—but I’d taken extra time with makeup. "You ready?"
"Yeah," I managed, though my stomach was doing somersaults. He stepped back, giving me room to step out, his hand naturally finding the small of my back as he led me toward the truck parked at the curb. That touch? It sent a little jolt through me, grounding and electric all at once.
It was impossible not to think of his hands on my butt whenever he touched me. It made me hot just to think about it.
Inside the cab, I buckled up, trying not to notice how close we were in the confined space. The scent of him—clean soap with just a hint of smoke, like it clung to him no matter where he went—filled the air.
“You still smell smoky,” I said.
“Yeah. Tough to get it off. Sorry, babe, comes with the territory.”
“It’s okay. It’s kinda nice. Just smells of you.”
He glanced my way as he started the engine, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the console between us.
“So I should warn you,” he said, “I haven’t been on a date in a long time. I’m gonna be rusty.”
“Rusty?”
“Right. Might forget how to do it. What to say. Might start barking like a dog or rolling about on the floor.”
I laughed. “Sounds like you’ve never been on a date.”
He gave me a gorgeous grin. “Feels like I’ve never been on an important date. Until now.”
There was that heat again, pooling in my belly.
“Well, lucky for you, I’m good company.” I gave him a wicked grin.
“There’s my brat,” he said. “Watch yourself, just because we’re out, doesn’t mean I can’t find a moment to tan that hide again.”
“Oh, please, no, Daddy,” I said, pretending as hard. “Anything but that.”
The truck rumbled down the narrow streets of Small Falls, past familiar storefronts and lampposts adorned with hanging flower baskets. Brett drove like he did everything else: steady, sure, in control. I caught myself watching the way his hands moved on the wheel, strong and deliberate, before I jerked my gaze out the window.
When we pulled up to the restaurant, I relaxed a fraction. Maryanne’s Place. No white tablecloths, no stuffy waiters. Just a cozy spot with dim lights spilling through the windows and the hum of country songs drifting into the night air. Brett opened my door before I could reach for the handle, offering his hand to help me down. His palm was rough against mine, and I liked it more than I should’ve.
"After you," he said, holding the door open as we stepped inside.
The hostess lit up the second she saw him. “Brett Wilkins! Been a minute since you brought someone by.”
I flushed, suddenly hyperaware of everything—the way his hand stayed on my lower back, the way her eyes flicked to me, curious.
"Good to see you too, Maryanne," he replied, smooth as ever. "Got room for two?"
"Always do." She grabbed a couple menus and led us to a booth tucked in the corner. The wood creaked softly as we slid in, Brett across from me. The table was small—small enough that our knees brushed as we settled in. Heat climbed up my neck. Surely he noticed, but if he did, he didn’t say anything.
"Cozy," he murmured, his lips twitching into a grin as he leaned back, one arm draping lazily along the top of the booth. His leg shifted, brushing mine again, and this time, I swore it was on purpose.
The fried pickles crackled as Brett set the plate between us, the tangy scent of dill and batter making my stomach rumble. I popped one into my mouth, still hot enough to sting my tongue, and immediately reached for my water.
"Careful," he said, chuckling low. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "They sneak up on you."
"Thanks for the warning," I said dryly, though I couldn’t help grinning. The pickle was way better than I expected—salty, crunchy, with just the right amount of bite. I grabbed another before I could second-guess it.
"Guess you’re a fan now," he teased, leaning forward slightly. His forearms rested on the table, muscles subtly flexing under his sleeves.
"Don’t push your luck," I shot back, but my tone was playful. It felt easy. Too easy, maybe.
We kept the conversation light at first—work stories, mostly. He told me about a recent call where they rescued a cat from an attic crawl space. “Thing hissed like it wanted to fight all of us,” he said, shaking his head. “But then it curled right up in my arms once we got it out. Cats are weird.”
"That’s because they own us, not the other way around, and they know it," I said. "I used to have one named Momo, when I was a kid. Total diva. She wouldn’t touch anything less than premium canned food."
"Sounds like our old dog, Scruff. He would only eat human food. Marcus loved that thing. Used to feed him his dinner when Dad wasn’t looking," Brett replied, smirking. His expression shifted just slightly when he mentioned his brother, like the name carried weight. He sat back, his shoulders relaxing but his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
“How is Marcus?” I asked. “His wedding plans going well?”
“I think so. Obviously Golden Boy is gonna have a golden wedding.”
"Golden boy?" I repeated, tilting my head.
"Yeah." Brett’s lips quirked into a half-smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Always had his act together. Straight A’s. Star athlete. Took over the family business without skipping a beat.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, but his fingers toyed with the edge of a napkin. “Me? I wanted something else. Something that wasn’t just . . . following in his footsteps. So, I joined the department. Figured I’d step out of his shadow, make something of myself.”
There was a tightness in his voice, buried deep beneath the casual tone. I could feel the layers of it—the pride, the frustration, the lingering ache of trying to prove himself. My chest tightened in response.
Weirdly it reminded me of myself. Although, right now, I was carrying on in the family business. But I wished it could be different.
"That must’ve been hard," I said softly. My voice barely carried over the hum of country music from the speakers.
"Sometimes," he admitted. His hazel eyes flicked to mine, steady but guarded, like he wasn’t sure how much to let me see. “I love him a lot, of course, and I’m super happy for him. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous.”
That took me by surprise. I admired his honesty. It took a lot of guts to admit to that. “It’s okay to be jealous,” I said. I swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of sharing something back. Honesty for honesty. That’s how it works, right?
"After my mom left, I dealt with a lot of jealousy, too," I said, my fingers curling around the edge of my plate. The words came out quieter than I intended, but I pushed through. "I was jealous of basically everyone in the world who wasn’t me. Dad tried. He really did. But there was this moment—I don’t even remember exactly when—where I realized I had to be ‘the grown-up,’ too. Like, I couldn’t just be a kid anymore. There wasn’t room for it."
“Why did your Mom leave?” It was a gentle question, but it hurt.
“Honestly, I’m not sure. Think that made it even harder. Dad always said it was nothing to do with me, that it was all his fault. But I never found out. It was like Dad was ashamed of it.”
Brett didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t have to. His hand slid across the table, warm and solid as it settled over mine. His thumb brushed my knuckles, slow and deliberate. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
"You didn’t deserve that," he said finally, his voice low and certain. “None of it. I’m sorry.”
Brett’s hand lingered on mine for a beat longer than I expected. When he finally pulled it back, the warmth stayed, like he’d left some invisible mark there. My throat felt a little tight, but not in a bad way. His hazel eyes caught mine, steady and patient, and I realized he was waiting—giving me space to speak if I wanted to.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked, my voice barely above the hum of the country music drifting through the restaurant. I didn’t look away from his face, watching for any flicker of hesitation. There wasn’t any. Just that quiet openness he wore so easily.
"Of course, baby girl," he said, leaning forward slightly, his silver hair catching the low light. "I’m all ears."
I drew in a breath, tapping my nails lightly against the edge of my plate. "You know how I said I didn’t really get to be a kid? Well, sometimes I think . . . I think I still want to be, just a little. Maybe not all the time, but—" I broke off, suddenly feeling too exposed. Too much.
Brett didn’t even blink. “Keep going,” he encouraged softly, his voice calm, like he was coaxing a stray animal closer. He didn’t push, just waited.
"Okay, um." I swallowed hard, glancing at the table for a second before forcing myself to meet his gaze again. "I’ve never really experimented with Littlespace before. I never had the opportunity. But, I think I’d like to. I think I’m ready."
The silence stretched for a moment, though Brett’s expression didn’t shift. Finally, he nodded, slow and thoughtful. “You know I’m willing to help you into it?”
My stomach did an unsteady flip. "You are?"
"Mmhm." His lips quirked into a small smile. "I’ve dabbled in it before. Never had a true Little of my own, though." He tapped a finger lightly against the edge of the table. "But I’ve helped others. I think I could help you."
His words settled over me, warm and grounding. "Really?" I asked, my voice soft. Relief started to push back the nerves buzzing under my skin. Relief and mild jealousy.
I think he sensed that jealousy, because her said, “Really. By the way, it was never anything romantic. Not like we have.”
"Thanks," I murmured, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. His acceptance wrapped around me like a blanket, easing the tension in my shoulders.
Before I could say more, our plates arrived, steaming and fragrant. Chicken fried steak for him, mac and cheese for me, both piled high like the restaurant knew exactly what comfort food meant. The first bite melted in my mouth, rich and buttery, but it was hard to focus on the taste when Brett’s presence seemed to fill the entire booth.
"So," he said after a few bites, cutting into his steak with deliberate ease, "what draws you to it? The whole dynamic, I mean."
I hesitated, twirling a forkful of macaroni. "I guess . . . it’s the freedom of it. Like, I don’t have to have everything together all the time. With someone who understands, I wouldn’t have to be perfect or strong or... whatever else people expect." My voice softened, almost to a whisper. "I could just be me. Messy, silly, maybe a little needy sometimes. And that would be okay."
"Sounds like you’ve been carrying a lot on your own," Brett said, his tone gentle but firm, like he wasn’t afraid to name what I’d been skirting around.
"Yeah," I admitted, my chest tightening briefly before loosening again. "Maybe that’s why it feels so appealing, you know? Like I could finally put down the weight. It felt a bit like that when—" I lowered my voice “—I was being all bratty.”
He flashed me a smile. “I get that. Why don’t we try? Tonight. My place, when we’re done here?”
Our eyes met across the table, and the air between us shifted, heavier but not suffocating. Electric. I could feel every inch of space separating us, even though it wasn’t much.
"That sounds amazing," I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
"Yeah?" His lips curved into that easy, teasing grin, but his eyes stayed serious. Warm. Safe. "Well, guess it’s a date. You know, another one."
"Wow, we’re onto the second date already," I said, smiling back despite myself.
By the time dessert came—a shared slice of peach cobbler we didn’t really need but couldn’t resist—the conversation had grown softer, slower. We didn’t say much, but the smiles we exchanged said enough. More than enough.
***
O nce we stepped out of the restaurant, the cool evening air wrapped around us. Brett’s hand found my waist, his fingers warm and steady as he pulled me closer. My breath hitched, but I didn’t pull away. Couldn’t have if I tried.
"Ready to head back?" he murmured, his voice low and rich, curling around me like smoke from a campfire. Every word carried a promise that made my cheeks burn.
"Yeah," I said, my voice softer than I meant it to be. I nodded quickly, hoping it masked the nervous flutter in my chest. My stomach flipped at the thought of what "back" meant tonight. Littlespace. With him.
I was so nervous that the trip home seemed to pass in a blur. It wasn’t long before Brett unlocked the door and nudged it open, flipping a switch as we stepped inside. The living room filled with a soft, golden glow, the kind that made everything feel warmer. His place felt . . . different at night. Cozy, but quieter somehow, like it was holding its breath. The faint scent of cedarwood and something sweeter—incense maybe—lingered in the air, and my stomach did this weird little flip.
"Make yourself at home," he said, his voice low but steady. He didn’t let go of my hand, though, not right away. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, slow and deliberate, and I felt my nerves spike. He must’ve noticed because his lips quirked into a smile—not teasing exactly, just calm, like he knew what I needed before I did.
So many years of just seeing Brett as my neighbor. Now he was so much more.
"How about we get you comfy?" he asked, eyes meeting mine. "Maybe pick out some pajamas? Throw on cartoons?"
The casual way he said it nearly knocked me off balance. Pajamas. Cartoons. Like it wasn’t a big deal, even though to me, it kind of was. My throat tightened, but I nodded, managing a small, "Okay."
"Good girl," he murmured, and just like that, my knees felt wobbly. He tugged me gently, leading me down the hall toward the guest room.
The dresser was tucked against the far wall, neat and unassuming. Brett pulled open a drawer, exposing a handful of oversized shirts in soft cotton—clearly picked out for comfort, not style.
“You had all this stuff already?”
“Just living in hope,” he said. “That I might meet the right person. Or that I already had.”
I bit my lip. My fingers hovered over the garments, brushing the fabric lightly until one caught my eye: pale blue with a goofy cartoon dinosaur plastered across the front. It looked ridiculous and perfect, and I couldn’t help the tiny laugh that bubbled up.
"That one?" he asked, pulling it free. He held it up, the shirt dangling from his fingers like he was showing off a prize. "Think it'll suit you."
"Yeah," I said quietly, taking it from him. The fabric was softer than I expected, worn in just enough to feel cozy. It smelled faintly of detergent and something else that was probably just him . "This is good."
"Take your time, sweetheart," Brett said, stepping back toward the door. His voice had dropped, softer now, less like a firefighter giving orders and more . . . patient. Gentle. "I'll be in the living room when you're ready."
It was so different to the combative, sexy dynamic we’d explored last night. It felt thrilling that we could be so many different people but still, at our core, totally us.
"Okay," I whispered, clutching the shirt to my chest as he left. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of my thoughts.
Changing felt oddly intimate. The shirt slipped over my head, loose and draping down to mid-thigh. It clung in places I hadn’t expected, skimming bare skin that suddenly felt overly sensitive. Vulnerable. But not in a bad way. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser and paused. It wasn’t just the clothes; it was the space, the moment, the feeling that I could breathe here. That I didn’t have to hold so much of myself together.
I smoothed my hands down the front of the shirt and took a deep breath. Then another. By the time I reached for the door, my nerves weren’t completely gone, but they’d settled. Enough, anyway.
I stepped into the living room, tugging at the hem of the oversized shirt. The room looked different now, transformed by Brett’s quiet thoughtfulness. A plush blanket lay draped over the couch, corners folded with precision that made me smile. And there, on the seat cushion, sat a little pile of stuffed animals: two teddy bears, one brown, one cream, and a floppy-eared rabbit with fur so velvety it practically shimmered under the lamplight.
My throat tightened. All this time I thought that Brett was just this stern, cocky fire fighter, when all along, he had these stuffies!
"Hey," Brett said, glancing up from where he was fiddling with the remote. His hazel eyes softened as they landed on me. "You look perfect."
"Stop," I mumbled, heat rushing to my cheeks. I shifted on bare feet, my fingers twitching at the hem of the shirt.
"Not kidding," he said, leaning back against the couch cushions like it was the most natural thing in the world to say. His silver hair caught the light just right, making him look both impossibly warm and unfairly handsome. He patted the spot next to him, his grin tilting a little crooked. “C’mere, princess. Let’s snuggle in.”
Princess. That word hit me low in my stomach, sweet and steady. I nodded, padding across the room. My knees brushed the edge of the coffee table as I perched briefly before sliding onto the couch beside him. The blanket smelled faintly like cedarwood and laundry soap as I pulled it over my lap, trying not to focus too hard on the warmth of his thigh against mine.
"These are for you." His voice was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something quieter, almost shy, as he nudged the stuffed animals toward me. "Figured you might like 'em."
"Are you kidding?" My hands moved before I could stop them, reaching for the rabbit first. The fur was softer than I expected, and I ran my fingers over one floppy ear, fighting the sudden sting behind my eyes. "They're perfect. Thank you."
"Good," he murmured, turning back to the remote. He flicked through a few menus with practiced ease, then paused. "Hope you like old-school animation. This one’s kind of a classic."
"Let me guess,” I teased, settling into the crook between his arm and the back of the couch. “Something with talking animals and a ridiculously catchy soundtrack?"
"Obviously," he said, deadpan, but his lips twitched.
When the movie started, the opening score sparked something distant and familiar in me. I let out a soft laugh, tucking my legs underneath me. "Oh my god, I haven’t seen this in years."
"Then you're overdue," Brett said, his voice low and close to my ear. His arm slid around my shoulders, pulling me gently against him. The motion felt effortless, but deliberate, too—like he knew exactly how to make me feel small in the best possible way.
I melted into him, resting my head against his shoulder. The weight of his arm, solid and warm, anchored me in place. My pulse, which had been skittering all night, finally slowed, matching the easy rhythm of his breathing.
As the movie played, I found myself relaxing more, bit by bit. The soft flicker of the screen painted his profile in muted colors, and every so often, when I glanced up, he’d already be looking down at me, his expression unreadable but achingly tender.
I hugged the rabbit tighter, letting the sound of cheerful voices and whimsical music pull me further into the moment. Into *us*.
Halfway through the movie, Brett's fingers brushed my chin. Warm and deliberate, they tilted my face up toward his. “You doing okay, baby girl?” he asked, his voice soft but steady.
I blinked, startled out of the haze of the cartoon’s bright colors and cheerful music. His hazel eyes searched mine, calm but probing, like he could see straight through me to the ache I hadn’t realized was there—the kind of ache that came from feeling too much all at once.
My throat felt tight. Too many feelings bubbled up inside me. Safe. Seen. Small. But not small in a way that hurt. Small in a way that made me feel held. Protected. Like it was okay to let go for once.
I gave a little nod, my breath hitching before I could find words. “Yeah,” I whispered. Then, quieter still, “Yes, Daddy.”
His expression softened even more—something I didn’t think was possible. The corners of his mouth curved gently, and his thumb ghosted over my jaw before his hand fell away. But the weight of the moment stayed, wrapping around me like the fluffy blanket draped across my lap.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, so low it sent a shiver down my spine, leaving warmth in its wake. “Would you like some warm milk?”
I nodded. “Yes please Daddy,” I felt kind of dreamy, like the world was fuzzy around the edges.
He put the movie on pause, got up and I instantly missed him. All my emotions felt raw, like they were dialed all the way up. “Don’t be long Daddy,” I said.
“Don’t you worry,” he called back.
He wasn’t long, thankfully.
I shifted in the seat, and he sat down next to me. “It’s hot, baby,” he said. “I’m gonna feed you, okay?”
“Yes Daddy, and I’m gonna get all sleepy.”
He blew on the surface of the milk, cooling it for me, then he held the cup to my lips. I sipped gently, enjoyed the perfectly warm milk slipping into my mouth.
“It’s yummy,” I said. “Didn’t know milk could be this yummy.”
“Good. Now lie down, sweetie, put your head in my lap.”
The words settled something deep in me—like a puzzle piece clicking into place. I did it, putting my head down, and the world seemed to melt away.
By the time the credits rolled, I barely noticed. My eyelids were heavy, the plush rabbit clutched loosely in my arms now. Brett shifted beside me, his movement gentle enough not to jostle me too much. His hand brushed over my hair, tucking a stray piece behind my ear, before his lips pressed softly to my temple.
“You ready for bed, princess?” he whispered, the heat of his breath warm against my skin.
The question made something twist and settle all at once in my chest. I nodded, blinking up at him, my body slow and syrupy with sleepiness. He stood, offering me his hand. Big and steady, his palm engulfed mine as he helped me to my feet.
The plush rabbit dangled from one arm as I followed him. My socked feet padded quietly on the hardwood floor, the house dim and cozy around us. My heart thudded, slow and rhythmic, matching each step we took toward the guest room. Gratitude welled up in me, so big it almost didn’t fit inside, and yet it sat snugly next to this unfamiliar longing—a wanting that wasn’t desperate or needy, just… full.
When Brett opened the door, pausing to flick on the light, I glanced up at him. The warmth in his hazel eyes steadied me, just like it always did. Whatever tomorrow brought, I knew this: I was safe here. Safe with him.