Chapter 14: The Matchmaker's Misstep
The morning light through Darian’s bedroom window was indirect, a soft gray-gold that crept across the duvet. Lily-Anne awoke to the unfamiliar weight of a man’s arm draped over her waist, the solid heat of his chest against her back. For one disorienting second, panic fluttered in her throat. Then memory returned, not as a flood, but as a gentle tide: the fort, the story, the warm milk, his finger in her hand.
She was still holding it. Her small hand was curled loosely around his forefinger, even in sleep. The intimacy of it, the unconscious trust, made her face warm.
She didn’t move. She listened to the deep, even rhythm of his breathing behind her, felt the scratch of his beard against the crown of her head. This was peace. This was a foreign country she had no map for.
His arm tightened minutely. “I can hear you thinking,” his voice rumbled, sleep-rough and deeper than usual. “Too loud for this hour.”
“Sorry,” she whispered automatically.
“Don’t be.” He shifted, pulling her just a fraction closer. “But tell me what’s rattling around in there.”
She stared at the slice of city visible through the window. I’m afraid this was a dream. I’m afraid you’ll realize I’m too much work. I’m afraid I’ll never feel this safe again. The words lined up but stuck in her throat, too heavy and too revealing.
“Just… remembering,” she settled on, which wasn’t a lie.
He hummed in acknowledgment, a vibration she felt through her whole body. He didn’t press. Instead, he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to her hair. “Come on, up. I make terrible coffee, but I make exceptional pancakes. And you have a date with a certain bunny who got left in the fort.”
The normalcy of it, the domestic pivot from profound vulnerability to pancakes, was its own kind of magic. He released her, sitting up with a groan that was more performative than pained. She missed his warmth immediately.
The following week passed in a blur of text messages and a strange, new dual reality. At work, she shelved books and dealt with customers, the stuffed bunny a secret lump in her satchel. At home, in her quiet apartment, she would re-read Darian’s last text—Hope my brave girl had a good day—and feel a glow that was both comforting and anxiety-inducing. It felt precarious, this happiness. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
When he suggested returning to The Pearl that Saturday, the anxiety spiked. The nursery had been the site of her initial terror. The memory of standing alone, clutching her dress, was sharp.
“You don’t have to, little one,” his voice had come through the phone, perceptive as ever. “But I think it might feel different now. With me.”
She went, of course. She wore the sundress again, a security blanket in cotton. Buster was zipped securely inside her satchel.
The Pearl’s main hall was quieter this time, a low hum of conversation from the lounge. But the moment Darian pushed open the door to the Little’s Nursery, the wave of sound and color hit Lily-Anne afresh. It hadn’t changed. The sun still slanted across the same faded rug. The air still smelled of vanilla and crayon wax. But she had.
And yet, the old insecurities slithered back. They were all so good at it. A petite woman with pink hair was coloring furiously, tongue between her teeth, completely absorbed. A younger man in overalls was quietly assembling a massive Lego spaceship, his caregiver smiling as she watched. Another little was giggling, being chased by her Daddy in a playful game of tag. Their littlespace seemed effortless, public, unashamed.
Lily-Anne hovered in the doorway, her hand in Darian’s, feeling like a forged painting in a gallery of originals. Her little space was a fragile, nocturnal thing that bloomed in darkness and safety. Theirs was a sunflower, bold and open to the sky.
A deep pang of loss, unexpected and cruel, twisted in her chest. He should have one of them. Someone whole, someone who could do this properly. Someone who wouldn’t clutch his finger all night because she was afraid of the dark inside her own head.
Darian led her to a quieter corner with two oversized armchairs. He sat, pulling her down onto his lap as naturally as breathing. She stiffened for a second, acutely aware of the room, then forced herself to relax against him. His arms came around her, his chin resting on her shoulder.
“See anyone you’d like to play with?” he asked softly, his breath tickling her ear.
She watched the little with the pink hair. She was showing her drawing to her Daddy now, beaming with pride. He was praising her, tapping her nose with a crayon. It was perfect.
“Her,” Lily-Anne said, her voice a little hollow. “The one with the pink hair. She’s so creative. And she’s not shy at all.”
Darian made a non-committal sound. “She’s very focused.”
A moment later, the little in overalls completed his spaceship with a quiet ‘click.’ He held it up, his face a picture of solemn triumph. His caregiver kissed his forehead.
“Or him,” Lily-Anne continued, the ache in her chest tightening. “He’s so clever and patient. You like builders. You have all those model ships on your bookshelf.”
“I do appreciate patience,” Darian agreed, his tone unreadable.
The game of tag ended with the little shrieking with laughter as she was caught and swung into a hug. She was adorable, all bouncing curls and unchecked joy.
“Her, too,” Lily-Anne whispered, the words tasting like ash. “She’s so happy. So… free. She would be good with you.”
Darian’s arms, which had been loosely holding her, became still. He was silent for a long minute, just watching the room with her, his body a supportive wall behind her.
Then, he shifted, turning her gently on his lap so she was sideways, forced to look at him. His hazel eyes were calm, inquisitive.
“Lily-Anne,” he said, his voice low. “Why are you trying to set me up with every little in this room?”
The directness of the question winded her. She blinked, trying to formulate a bright, convincing lie. She crafted a smile she hoped looked genuine. “I just want you to be happy,” she chirped, the forced lightness brittle in her own ears. “They all seem so… good. So much better at this than I am. You should have a little who isn’t so…” She chuckled, awkwardly, gesturing vaguely at herself, at the entire lump of anxiety and need that she was.
He studied her face, his gaze missing nothing: the strain around her eyes, the tremor in her supposed smile. He took her hand, the one desperately clutching the fabric of his shirt, and unfolded her fingers. He laced his with them, a firm, anchoring hold.
“I’m not interested in other littles,” he stated, plain and final.
The words should have been a balm. Instead, they felt like a dismissal of the entire idea of them. Her lower lip betrayed her, pushing out in a slight, unplanned pout. She looked down at their joined hands. “Oh. So you… you don’t want to be anyone’s Daddy right now. I understand.” The crushing finality of it made her eyes burn.
Darian stared at her. His expression shifted from patience to something like mild, incredulous shock. He was silent for so long she had to glance up. The intensity in his eyes stole her breath.
He brought their joined hands up, pressing her knuckles to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. The touch was firm, possessive.
“Do you really not know,” he said, each word measured and steeped in a kind of awed disbelief, “that I have been trying to make you my little since the moment I saw you standing by yourself, trying to disappear into the wallpaper?”
The room, the other littles, the entire world, blurred into a watery, insignificant haze. The only sharp things were the feel of his lips on her skin and the seismic truth cracking open inside her.
Her jaw went slack. A single hot tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek before she could catch it. All the pointing, the suggestions, her own painful, self-sacrificing blindness—it collapsed under the weight of his simple, declarative sentence.
He saw her. He had chosen her. Not a better version, not an easier one. Her.
She couldn’t speak. She could only stare at him, tears now flowing freely, her heart a wild, wounded, hopeful thing pounding against her ribs.