9. Nina
NINE
Nina
"You look ridiculous." He lifts one corner of the reading shawl and eyes the mismatched footies like it's the highest offense in the world.
"I'm ridiculous," I agree, sinking into the armchair in the little nook as if gravity has finally remembered me. Ollie is tucked under my chin. My fingers curl around his worn wing. "But safe is nice."
He doesn't laugh. He folds a plate across his knees, mac and cheese cut into neat, bite-sized spoonfuls. The kitchen light is low; the nook is warmer than my apartment. The shelf of picture books glows like a private constellation. Everything smells faintly of his cologne and baking cinnamon.
"Say the safe word if anything—" he starts, then stops because I already nod.
"Green," I say, and the sound comes small but steady. Saying it aloud makes it real: I'm asking permission to be small. He breathes out, approval soft enough to melt the last of my resistance.
"Okay, baby girl." He settles on the floor across from me, legs folded, the way he always sits when he's making room. "Tea?" he asks, like it's an offer and a command and a promise all in one.
"Yes, please." My voice is little and thin.
I feel ridiculous and right at the same time.
The world narrows to the circle of his hand and the steam rising from the kid-sized mug.
He wraps both hands around it as if to warm his palms for me and I try not to stare at the tendons in his wrists, at the way his shirt pulls over his shoulder. My pulse skips.
"Eat first," he says, pushing the plate toward me. "Spoon, princess."
He watches like it's a ceremony. I nibble, and he praises, every bite a tiny medal. "Good girl," he murmurs. "Such a good girl for me." Praise is its own steadying thing. My shoulders loosen.
We set up a tea party for three—me, him, and Muff the Bunny, whose one ear hangs limply from years of being loved.
He takes it seriously, placing an extra napkin beside his knee.
He pours pretend tea with solemn concentration.
When he pours too little for Muff, he looks offended on the bunny's behalf and corrects himself.
"You're very dramatic for a stuffed animal," I say, and the giggle that comes out of me surprises me with its ease.
"He's doing covert ops," he whispers, conspiratorial.
"Muff is a secret agent. Ollie double-checks the intel.
" He leans forward, conspiratorially close, and the heat of him is tangible.
I can feel his breath near my ear. My adult brain catalogues the things he does—the steady width of his shoulders, the faint scar along his brow, the way the collar of his shirt frames his throat—and my chest answers in a way that is entirely not little. It makes me dizzy and oddly safe.
I color. Thick-line hearts, a brave-heart banner in red crayon. When I accidentally go outside the lines, he tuts and then hands me a sticker sheet like a reward chart in miniature.
"You're doing brave work," he says. "Here. For staying."
I press a smiley sticker onto the corner of the page and feel, horribly, childishly proud. He leans over, and I catch the tang of his cologne up close—leather and citrus—anchoring me like a promise.
Halfway through the coloring, the door opens and Lorenzo slips in without knocking, an apologetic smile already in place. He carries a mug and an envelope.
"Interrupting?" he says.
"No," I say, but my voice is small. Lorenzo's eyes flick toward the tea set and then to me, and his mouth quirks.
He doesn't comment. He never patronizes. He knows which private things are his to respect. "Vittorio," he says, dropping the envelope on the counter, "we traced the leak to a vendor. Nothing public yet. I'll keep at it."
I nod. I knew this—knew the work was happening because he told me, because he told Lorenzo, because that's how he protects. Still, his action is a physical relief, as if a weight I couldn't name is being moved.
"Good," I say. "Thank you."
Lorenzo gives me one of those looks men give when they are slightly baffled by a scene they can't decode—half embarrassed, half fond. He sets his mug down, gives Vittorio a curt nod, and slips out the way he came. We both watch the door until it clicks. Then the air is only us again.
"Do you want to tape one of the stickers on the chart?
" Vittorio asks. He pulls a small clipboard from under his seat with a childish institutional efficiency.
There's a little chart for the day: nap taken, ate vegetables, asked permission before going out.
Tiny boxes already ticked. I can feel a ridiculous surge of gratitude for having someone arrange a chart for me as if my whole life fits into checked boxes.
"When did you even—" I start.
"Last week," he says. "I asked you what made you feel safe. You told me structure. So I made structure."
"You made me a behavior chart." I could be embarrassed. Instead, heat blooms behind my ribs. He's paying attention to me. He's paying attention to what I need instead of what he'd prefer.
He taps a sticker onto the "brave-heart" box. "There," he says. "One more point toward a cookie."
"Can I have one?" I ask, and the sentence is all breath.
"Ask nicely."
"Daddy, can I please have a cookie?" I try for the princess voice. It squeaks out.
He grins, that private, small smile reserved for me.
He hands me a plate where a single cookie waits—still warm from the oven.
I nibble and he feeds me a crumb with his thumb.
His hand is big. I watch the muscles flex under my gaze.
My adult impulses hum—wanting to reach up, kiss him, tell him thank you in a way that means more than good manners.
Instead, I press the cookie to my lips and then lean my head against his knee without asking. He doesn't startle. He murmurs the single word that makes everything safe and strangely official.
"Stay."
I stay. The world shrinks to the hum of his watch, the scrape of crayon on paper, the comfort of the shawl. After a while, the little-space fog clouds the edges of my thoughts—the clinical lists and the lingering fear about the hospital filing—softens. I breathe easier than I have in months.
When I lift my head, adult logic fights to return.
I know the risk: being seen like this, even in private moments preserved from the public eye, could be weaponized.
I told myself yesterday I'd be more careful.
I'd be smaller only in the fortress, not in the world outside.
But here, with him, the fortress feels real.
"Do you think—" I begin, then stop. I shouldn't ask him to promise forever. It's foolish. It's dangerous. But the question hunting at the base of my throat won't be quieted.
"Do you think you'll always keep me safe, Daddy?" I ask, and the words tumble out—little and vulnerable and so exposed I wince at their nakedness.
He goes very still. The air between us tightens. He sets his mug down like he's anchoring himself. His hazel eyes are all focus, no theatrics. For a second I'm struck by how adult he is—by how much of the world he shoulders—and then he leans down and kisses my forehead, soft and reverent.
"I will keep you safe," he says. "As long as you want me to. And not just when it's convenient. Not just when it's easy."
I taste the present in that—no political promises, no grand statements for optics. Just a simple, dangerous certainty.
"But—" I push, my voice adult for the first time since I've been here. "What if protecting me becomes a risk to you? Your life—your...things. You told me you can't let this be used against either of us."
He lifts his head, expression hardening not with anger but with a careful, practiced resolve. "Then I make the risk smaller. I move the pieces. I keep you where you need to be, and I bury anything that would hurt you." He pauses. "I've already started."
His fingers find mine, large and warm. He doesn't squeeze; he steadies. "We don't do anything public that endangers your career. No pictures, no social media. No humiliating nicknames in places you can't control. You pick what the world sees. I keep the rest."
"Even...if I need time away? If HR asks me things I'm not ready for?" I ask. The hospital looms; Elena's file is a cold presence. I don't need him to lie for me. I need him to be clear about boundaries.
"Then we handle it together," he says. "I'll sit in that office. I'll sign confidentiality if that's what it takes. I'll call who I need to call. You won't stand alone."
I let that land. It's not an easy fairy tale. It's a plan. The difference matters.
He reaches for my vintage journal on the side table—the one with pressed flowers and the ink-stained cover.
He opens to where I left a half-drawn brave-heart.
He tapes the drawing to a magnet and moves toward the fridge.
The nook's fridge is small, inset into the cabinet, a private square away from guests.
He presses the magnet into place in a corner that's only visible from the couch—an invisible gallery.
"There," he says. "Bravery goes on the wall."
My throat tightens, and I can't look at him because my face would betray me. He comes back and sits beside me, and the proximity is a charged thing. His arm rests behind my shoulders. I feel the press of his palm near my collarbone. The contact makes my breath hitch.
"I like that you draw for me," he says, voice husky and very present. "I like that you say things that are true."
I turn to him, adult and little braided together. "You like my hearts?"
"I like everything you make," he says. Then softer: "I like you."
Those words are small, ordinary, enormous. The world tilts.
I stand because it feels right, because the space between us is full.
I climb into his lap for a second—an adult movement, consenting, deliberate—and he lifts his face to mine.
Our lips meet, brief and careful at first. The kiss deepens into something more confident.
There's no pressure, only a tether that tightens with want and trust. I taste cookie crumbs and the echo of tea and cinnamon.
His hands cradle my face like they're reading the map of me.
When we break, I laugh—a short, breathy sound—and then we both look guilty and delighted at once.
"That was adult," he says, eyes flicking to mine with a challenge in them.
"I remain both," I answer, and the statement is more declaration than explanation.
We sit in the dusk. The little things settle around us: a sticker chart with points added, a drawing taped to a private fridge, a mug cooling on the table. Outside, the city is doing its loud, indifferent thing. Inside, with him, I can be small without collapsing my life.
When the phone buzzes on his counter, he checks it without flinching. A single text from Elena—I've seen it earlier today—and I already know what it says: "We need to talk about Dr. Russo." I don't ask. He hides the screen from my view and sets it face down. He doesn't let it interrupt the room.
"Promise me something," I say, quiet and sudden.
He searches my face. "Anything."
"No public displays without permission," I say. "No surprises that look like you don't trust me or that I can't handle my job."
He nods, slow and solemn. "No surprises. We negotiate everything. We put it in clear words."
I relax enough to rest my head against his chest. He hums, that low sound he makes when he's content. Ollie is between us. The world is an ache and a breath. Trust, I learn, is a repetitive manual task, not a single grand act. He is building it—sticker by sticker.
"Will you always keep me safe, Daddy?" I ask again, because the question needs answering in different ways, at different times.
He slides his hand through my hair and holds me like the question is a fragile thing. "Yes," he says, but there's something else in his eyes too—calculation, readiness. "And if it ever isn't enough, I'll do whatever it takes."
I close my eyes. The words are promise and strategy both. I curl around him and feel, for the first time in a long time, that being small doesn't erase my competence. It makes me whole.
But when the front door clicks—too soft to be Lorenzo—something else arrives. A muffled knock from the outer hall. No one should be here. My stomach drops in a way that feels suspiciously like fear, not the safe kind.
He stiffens beside me, jaw setting. The warmth in the room shifts. My heart accelerates, little and grown at the same time.
"Don't move," he whispers. "Stay where you are."
I don't. I cling to Ollie and watch the door through the gap in the curtain while he goes to meet whoever is waiting, the magnet with my brave-heart drawing caught between his fingers.