Chapter 21 Bitsy
The moment the doors of Enigma shut behind them, the freezing winter wind snapped at the exposed skin of their faces.
Bitsy pulled her green coat tighter, but she didn’t have to shiver for long; Wyatt’s hand was already at the small of her back, a firm, steadying weight as he pulled her against his side as they moved across the slick, frozen asphalt.
The SUV stood under the perimeter lights, a hulking, dark shape against the swirling frost. As they reached the passenger side, Wyatt’s hands gripped her waist and effortlessly lifted her into the high cabin.
The sudden shift in gravity left her breathless, her heart hammering against her ribs as she settled onto the plush leather.
He didn't let go until she was securely seated, his touch lingering for a heartbeat against her sides before he pulled the door shut. He moved around the front of the vehicle with a steady, deliberate pace, and the second his door shut, the vicious roar of the wind was cut off, replaced by the hushed, warm sanctuary of the engine’s low idle as he pulled away from the curb.
Bitsy watched the city lights blur, feeling the heater kick in and begin to seep into her frozen extremities.
When Wyatt took the exit toward the city’s tech district rather than the residential route, she glanced over at him, her brow furrowing slightly.
She didn't question his direction, though; she had learned enough in the last twenty-four hours to know that Wyatt’s plans did not need to be questioned.
When he pulled into the near-empty plaza, the storefronts casting long, flickering halos of yellow light onto the salted asphalt, he killed the engine. The sudden silence felt heavy with his intent.
"That bag you're using for your laptop is unacceptable," he said, the statement leaving no room for argument as he stepped out into the biting cold.
He was around to her side before she could even reach for the latch, his hand closing firmly over her waist as he helped her out, his palm radiating heat as he pulled her right into the circle of his protection, marching her toward the store.
Inside, the fluorescent lights humming overhead felt sterile and jarring.
She felt small—not just because of the vast, glowing aisles of technology, but because of the sheer, looming presence of the man walking beside her.
He didn't let go of her waist, guiding her through the aisles with a firm, proprietary grip, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the quiet rows while she stayed tucked securely against his side, tethered to him by the heat of his palm.
When they stopped in front of the wall of laptop accessories, Wyatt gestured toward the rack. "Pick out a laptop case. You need something protective."
Bitsy hesitated, her heart doing a nervous little stutter. She immediately scanned the display for the clearance tags, her eyes darting past the high-end materials to find the lowest price. She pulled down a thin, nylon sleeve.
"This one is fine, sir," she said, showing it to him. "It’s got a little bit of padding, and it’s really affordable."
Wyatt didn't even touch the nylon sleeve.
He just looked at her, his dark eyes narrowing in a way that made her feel like she was being analyzed down to her very marrow.
"That wouldn't survive a walk to the parking lot, let alone daily use.
You need something with a structured frame and a reinforced lining. "
"I know," she whispered, her voice tightening as she looked back at the wall of expensive, sleek options, "but I can't afford those. I really can't, sir. I have to be careful."
"You aren't paying for this," Wyatt said, his tone instantly shutting down the debate. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. It was simply a fact. "As your Daddy and your boss, I am handling it. Now, pick out a quality sleeve. I want you to look at the leather options."
Bitsy felt her face flush, the heat rising all the way to her ears.
She felt exposed, her financial panic laid bare and then dismissed with such pure ease.
She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and touched a high-end, light gray leather case.
It felt substantial, the grain smooth and sturdy under her touch.
She pulled it off the rack, the quality obvious even to her untrained eye.
"This one?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
Wyatt took it from her, testing the weight, inspecting the stitching with a professional eye. "It’s durable. Good construction. It’s the right size, and the padding is sufficient to keep your device safe during your commute."
She stood there, holding it against her chest, suddenly feeling much more professional and cared for than she had in years. Wyatt watched her for a long moment, then nodded, taking the sleeve and carrying it to the register.
He paid without a second glance at the price tag, his ease with money something she still struggled to process. As they walked back out into the cold, he didn't give her a chance to drift. He kept his arm around her, a firm, grounding pressure at her waist.
He steered her toward the market next door without breaking stride, his hand still firmly anchored at her waist as they crossed the lot.
"Time to get those snacks," he said, his tone low and purposeful as he guided her through the sliding glass doors.
The interior was warm, smelling of fresh produce and baked bread.
Wyatt didn't head for the aisles she usually frequented—the ones filled with the processed, sugary snacks she grabbed to fill the gaps when she was hungry and tired.
Instead, he led her toward the back, past the vibrant displays of fresh fruit and into the aisles stocked with dried fruits, raw almonds, Greek yogurt, and protein bars.
"Bitsy," he said, catching her hand just as she reached for a box of familiar, neon-colored crackers.
He didn't squeeze hard, but the contact held her still.
"If you’re going to be under my roof and under my care, you are going to fuel your body properly.
Processed garbage won't cut it. You’re worth more than that. "
She looked down at the floor, a shy, pliant smile touching her lips. The intensity of his expectation—the way he demanded she be better to herself than she had ever dared to be—was a heavy, beautiful weight.
"Yes, sir," she whispered.
Wyatt steered her toward the butcher counter, his hand firm at her waist. He pointed to two thick, marbled filets, then gathered a bundle of asparagus and a handful of golden potatoes with a quiet, efficient confidence—the kind of man who moved with such purpose that questioning his choices felt entirely unnecessary.
When they checked out, the wind outside had turned vicious, the temperature dropping as night settled over the city.
Wyatt kept his arms firmly wrapped around her as they walked toward the SUV, shielding her from the biting gusts.
She leaned into him, the warmth of his body seeping through his coat and into her side, making the cold air feel like a distant, irrelevant problem.
She felt protected—truly, deeply safe—in a way that made the frantic, anxious part of her brain go quiet for the first time all day.
Back in her apartment, Wyatt placed the grocery bags on the counter and looked at her, his expression unreadable but focused.
"Go get changed," he directed. "Get comfortable. I’ll handle the kitchen."
He didn't need to repeat himself.
She retreated to her room, her heart still fluttering like a trapped bird.
She hung her coat in the closet, carefully placing her shoes on the rack.
She felt a strange sense of order as she tidied, putting her work clothes in the hamper and heading into the bathroom.
She pulled the band from her hair, letting the dark waves fall around her shoulders.
She brushed it smooth, the repetitive action calming her nerves.
She pulled on a pair of soft black leggings and an oversized, sage green sweater, feeling the comfort of the fabric.
She pulled the sleeves down over her hands, the weight of the fabric grounding her.
When she stepped back out into the hall, the aroma of searing meat and rosemary filled the air.
Her stomach gave a loud, involuntary growl, and she ducked her head, feeling embarrassed.
Wyatt was standing at the stove, his shoulders broad and powerful, the picture of focused control.
He turned, catching her movement, and gestured to the barstool.
Wyatt gestured to the barstool, his tone low but firm. "Have a seat.”
She climbed onto the stool, and he immediately placed a cold bottle of water in front of her.
"Everything smells incredible, sir," she said, watching him work. "Are you sure I can't help with anything?"
"I want you to relax, Bitsy. Let me take care of you tonight."
She sat there, her hands clasped in her lap, her thoughts wandering to the sheer absurdity of it all.
How could he know how much she needed this?
How could a man so powerful, so busy, choose to spend his time cooking for her?
She felt a sudden, sharp spike of guilt—was she being too needy? Was this too much?
Wyatt set the spatula down and looked at her, his eyes serious. "Whatever negative thoughts you’re having right now, they’re wrong."
She blinked, surprised. "How did you... how did you know I was thinking something negative?"
He leaned against the counter, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. "It was written all over your face, little girl. It’s a Daddy's job to know when something is bothering his girl. You’re safe here. Stop looking for the trap."
He turned back to the stove, and a few minutes later, he placed a plate in front of her. The steak had been perfectly cut into manageable, bite-sized pieces. She smiled softly at the gesture, feeling a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the kitchen heat.
He pulled up a stool next to her, and they ate in a comfortable, easy silence. She kept pausing to tell him how good the food was, genuinely amazed by the quality of the meal.
"Where did you learn to cook like this?" she asked.
"I worked in a restaurant during college," he said, taking a sip of his water. "Started as a dishwasher, worked my way up to the line. You learn a few things when you’re forced to work at that pace."
She stared at him, trying to imagine him in a frantic, grease-stained kitchen, a younger man just trying to get by. It was baffling, yet somehow made him feel more real. "I can't picture it," she admitted. "You seem like you were born in charge."
"Everyone has to start somewhere," he replied, his tone calm.
After dinner, she moved to grab the plates, her instinct to clean taking over. "I've got it. It’s my apartment, and you cooked. It’s only fair."
He reached out, giving her a gentle, firm pat on her bottom that made her cheeks burn. "Go brush your teeth and get ready for bed. I’ll handle the kitchen."
She obeyed, setting the plates back down on the counter. Her bedtime routine was a blur of calm, necessary movements—washing her face and brushing her teeth. When she walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom, Wyatt was there, sitting on the edge of her bed.
“Come here, sweetheart" he said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register.
She walked over, sitting beside him. He reached out, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You did good today," he murmured. "You listened, you worked hard, and you let me take care of you. That’s all I ask."
He stood up, pulling the blankets back. She climbed in, and he tucked the covers around her, pulling them up to her chin. He set a bottle of water on her bedside table and checked her alarm clock, making sure it was set for the morning.
He leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. The world felt like it was slowing down, the edges of her vision blurring with sleep.
"Goodnight... Daddy," she whispered, the word feeling natural, heavy with relief.
He smiled, a rare, genuine expression that reached his eyes. "Goodnight, Itsy-Bitsy."
He stayed for a moment, his hand resting on her shoulder as the tension finally bled out of her, the world around her fading into a soft, steady quiet until she drifted off.