Chapter 6: The Next Step
The grey light of morning found Lily-Anne exactly as she’d fallen asleep: bunny clutched to her chest, the duvet a warm cocoon. She didn’t open her eyes right away. She floated in the hazy space between dreams and wakefulness, where the feeling of the night before wasn’t a memory yet, but a lingering state of being. Safe. Seen.
Her phone was on the nightstand. The desire to see the words again was a physical pull. She rolled over, the springs of her old bed creaking softly, and grabbed it. The screen blazed to life. There it was, the last message in her notifications.
Marcus: Good girl. Sleep well, little one.
She read it once. Then again, slower. A shy, private smile touched her lips as she traced the word ‘good’ with her thumb. She imagined his voice saying it. Low, steady, sure. Not a question. A statement.
She made coffee, the ritual familiar and grounding. The apartment was quiet except for the gurgle of the machine and the distant hum of city traffic seeping through the old windows. Sitting at her small table, cradling the warm mug, she let herself think about him properly. Not just the calm, watchful man from the club, but what he might be like beyond that.
He’d said he built things. Furniture. Toys. Her mind supplied an image of large, capable hands sanding wood, the muscles in his forearms corded with the effort. Kind, tired eyes. A beard that would probably feel scratchy. Stern when he needed to be. What did that look like? Not anger, she decided, sipping her coffee. Not shouting. A certain firmness in his tone. A look that meant business. The thought should have scared her. Instead, it sent a different kind of shiver through her, one that pooled warm and low in her stomach.
"He was probably just being nice," she said to the empty room. Her voice sounded too loud. "I was practically a statue in the corner. He was just doing the decent thing."
But the ‘decent thing’ didn’t usually involve sitting on the floor in silence, or a hand on a shoulder that felt like an anchor, or those specific words. Little one. People didn’t say that by accident. Did they?
Carrying her coffee back to the bedroom, she sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and picked up her bunny. She held him up, facing her.
"He called me 'little one,' Button," she whispered, using the name she’d given him when she was eight. "And he said 'good girl.'" She pulled the bunny close, resting her chin on his head. "Do you think he says that to everyone? I don't think so. I saw him watching people. He didn't talk to anyone else like that."
She set Button down and began her work routine mechanically, her mind elsewhere. In the shower, the hot water beating on her shoulders, she wondered what his workshop smelled like—sawdust and wood stain and clean sweat. She wondered if he was a morning person. If he drank his coffee black. If he had any other littles, or if he was, as he’d said, just there to watch.
Dressed in a soft, cream-colored sweater and a floral skirt, she stood before her closet, her fingers brushing past the pastels and lace. She thought of his plain grey t-shirt, the simple, solid clothes he’d worn. There was an authenticity to it. No performance. He wasn’t wearing a costume either.
She brushed her hair, watching herself in the mirror. "He works with his hands," she told her reflection. "He makes things that last." The statement felt significant, though she couldn't entirely articulate why. It was the opposite of everything she’d known before—relationships that felt temporary, disposable, where her needs were treated as fleeting inconveniences.
Before leaving, she tucked Button carefully under the covers, patting his head. "I'll tell you everything tonight," she promised. She grabbed her worn leather satchel, slinging it over her shoulder. Her fingers brushed against the hidden pocket where the bunny sock was still nestled. She didn't take it out, but knowing it was there was a comfort.
The walk to the bookstore was a few blocks. The autumn air was crisp, carrying the smell of fallen leaves and distant bakery sugar. With each step, the cocooned warmth of her morning began to thin, replaced by the sharp ping of reality.
What was she doing? Building a fantasy around a man who’d been kind to her for one night. A man she knew nothing about. A daddy. The word, even in her own thoughts, felt dangerous and thrilling. She’d allowed herself to imagine it—what it would be like to have that, to have him—and now the fear was rushing in to fill the space where the daydream had been.
What if he’d just been polite? What if he saw her as a project, a nervous wreck to be managed? What if he expected something she couldn’t give? The old shame, hot and prickly, crept up her neck. She was too awkward, too quiet, too weird. Her littlespace wasn’t cute or bubbly; it was silent and hesitant. Who would want that?
She arrived at the bookstore, the bell jingling her entrance. The familiar scent of old paper and binding glue wrapped around her, a different kind of sanctuary. She flicked on the lights, the overhead bulbs warming with a soft buzz.
Her phone was in her bag. The last message was still there. A lifeline and a question mark.
She didn’t text him. She couldn’t. The courage of the night before had been a fragile, borrowed thing, fueled by desperation and the anonymity of a dimly lit playroom.
But as she started unpacking a box of new arrivals, her hands tracing the spines of vintage poetry collections, a new thought, clear and sharp, cut through the anxiety.
He’d said, "I’ll be there, if you want."
The choice was hers. The power was hers. The terrifying, exhilarating power to want something, and to maybe, someday, be brave enough to reach for it.
She placed a book on the shelf, her movements slow and deliberate. A small, determined seed had been planted beside the fear. She didn’t know which would grow. But for now, they would both have to live there.