Thesoft,floatyfeelingstarted in the elevator ride up to Dmitry's apartment, that particular weightlessness that meant I wanted to be little. It was different from the desperate drop into little space that happened when I was overwhelmed. This was a choice, a gentle slide into that younger headspace where the world felt manageable and Daddy would take care of everything.
My fingers found the hem of the blue dress, playing with the fabric as the floors counted up. Bear leaned against my leg, tired from our adventure, and even that small weight felt grounding. Dmitry watched me with those dark eyes that missed nothing, and I knew he could see the shift happening—the way my shoulders dropped, how my voice had gotten quieter on the walk home, the way I'd started holding his hand with both of mine like a child crossing the street.
"Go change into something comfortable," he said when we got inside, his hand gentle on my cheek. "I'll order dinner."
I nodded, already moving toward the bedroom on feet that felt disconnected from my body. The dress came off easily, replaced by one of his black t-shirts that hit mid-thigh and my softest pajama shorts—the ones with little stars on them that he'd bought me last week. The fabric felt like being hugged, and I pressed my face into the collar of his shirt, breathing in his scent.
When I padded back out to the living room, barefoot and soft, I stopped in the doorway.
Dmitry had transformed the space. The coffee table was pushed against the wall, and in its place stood what could only be described as a fort. Blankets draped between dining chairs and the couch, creating a cave of soft fabric. The overhead lights were off, replaced by the warm glow of string lights he must have had hidden somewhere, threaded through the blanket ceiling. Inside, I could see pillows piled like clouds and—my heart squeezed—my new books from The Strand stacked neatly beside a plate of sugar cookies.
"Daddy," I breathed, and my voice came out smaller than usual, tinged with wonder.
He looked up from where he was adjusting a corner of the blanket structure, and his smile was so tender it made my chest ache. "I thought my little girl might want a special reading space."
The words—my little girl, said in that tone that meant he saw exactly where I was emotionally—made me feel precisely that. Little. Safe. His.
I dropped to my knees to crawl into the fort without hesitation, and the interior was even better than I'd imagined. He'd layered soft blankets on the floor, making a nest of comfort. The pillows were arranged perfectly for lounging. There was even a battery-powered lantern shaped like a moon, casting gentle shadows on the blanket walls.
Bear followed me in, immediately claiming a corner and curling into a ball with a contented sigh. His presence made everything feel more real, more permanent—our dog in our fort in our home.
Dmitry had to practically fold himself in half to fit inside, his large frame comically oversized for the space. But he managed it, settling against the pillows with a groan that made me giggle.
"It's perfect," I said, running my hands over the soft blankets, touching everything like I needed to confirm it was real. "You made this for me?"
"For my little girl who had a big day," he said, pulling me between his legs so my back rested against his chest. "Sometimes big days need soft endings."
I melted against him, that floaty feeling intensifying until I felt completely disconnected from my adult responsibilities and worries. In here, in our fort, I didn't have to be twenty-two and traumatized. I could just be Daddy's little girl with her puppy and her books.
My fingers traced the spines of my new books, each one a small miracle of ownership. The fairy tale collection called to me—hardcover with gorgeous illustrations that had made my breath catch in the store. I picked it up carefully, like it might disappear if I held it too tight.
"Please read to me, Daddy?" The words came out smaller than my usual voice, that particular tone that only emerged in little space.
He took the book gently, his arms coming around me to hold it where we both could see. "Any particular story?"
I shook my head, then pointed at the beginning. "Start from the start. Want to hear all of them."
His chuckle rumbled through his chest into my back. "That might take all night, little one."
"Good," I said decisively, already playing with Bear's soft ears as he snored in his corner.
Dmitry's voice was magic. Deep and rumbling, with that slight accent that made familiar stories sound new. He read about princes transformed into beasts, about girls who slept for a hundred years, about mermaids who traded their voices for legs. His free hand played with my hair as he read, gentle tugs and twirls that made my eyes heavy.
This was little space for me—not baby talk or bottles or diapers, but this soft place where I could be young and protected. Where someone else made the decisions and kept the monsters away. Where fairy tales were real and happy endings were possible and Daddy's voice could chase away any nightmare.
"Look," I said, pointing at an illustration of a tower wrapped in roses. "She painted faces in the thorns. See? Little scary faces to show they're dangerous."
"You're right," Dmitry said, and the pride in his voice at my observation made warmth bloom in my chest. "The artist hid secrets in every picture. Should we find them all?"
I nodded enthusiastically, turning pages carefully to study each illustration. Dmitry never rushed me, never acted like my observations were childish, just asked questions that made me think deeper, look closer. Bear occasionally lifted his head tocheck on us, then went back to sleeping, and the domestic perfection of it all made my throat tight.
"Why are you crying, baby?" Dmitry asked, thumb catching a tear I hadn't realized had fallen.
"Happy," I managed, turning in his arms to bury my face in his chest. "Just really, really happy."
He held me while I cried those good tears, the ones that came when your body didn't know how to hold so much joy. His hand rubbed my back in slow circles, and he hummed something that might have been a Russian lullaby, and I felt safer than I'd ever felt in my entire life.
This was what little space really meant—not pretending to be a child, but allowing the wounded child I'd been to finally feel protected. To have the safety and care that had been stolen by foster homes and streets and survival. Dmitry understood that without me having to explain it, provided it without making me ask.
