"Right on time," I say, stepping aside. "Come in, boy."
He enters, eyes widening as he takes it in. "Holy... this place is insane. The windows, the view. It feels like a penthouse in a movie. And that kitchen? Pro level." He runs a hand along the marble island, awed. "Smells amazing already."
"Perks of the trade," I reply, closing the door. "Make yourself at home. Wine? Water?"
"Water's good," Danny says, still gawking at the terrace, the fireplace. "This is... just wowzers. You live like a king."
I chuckle, pouring him a glass. "Hard work. Now, dinner's almost ready, but I could use a hand. Ever julienne carrots?"
The boy blinks, setting his bag down—a dragon stuffie peeking out. "Uh, no. I'm more forklift than fine dining."
"Perfect,” I say, my voice gentle. “Lesson time." I hand him an apron, tying one myself. At the island, I set up boards, knives sharp as razors. "Watch."
I demo: top and tail the carrot, square it off, thin planks, then precise sticks.
Fast, fluid, precise.
"Key is grip,” I advise, noting how Danny; is making more and more eye contact with me. “Claw your hand to protect those fingers—and steady pressure. Rhythm over force."
He mimics, tentative at first, knife wobbling. "Like this?"
"Close. Relax your wrist." I step behind him—close, my chest to his back—and guide his hand, mine over his massive one. "Feel the motion. Smooth."
Together, we slice and the carrots fall uniformly.
I sense his breath hitch at the proximity, his body tensing then relaxing into me.
"Got it," Danny murmurs, voice husky. We finish the batch quick, his cuts improving. "That was... fun. You're a good teacher."
"You're a quick learner," I say, plating. "Sit."
We eat at the table overlooking the city lights. He devours it, calls it "the best post-work meal ever.” I listen as he praises the flavors, asks about techniques. Honestly, the conversation flows: his day on site, crew antics, my service stories.
But I see the fatigue—yawns creeping, eyes heavy from hauling all day.
"You're exhausted," I say, clearing plates. "Daddy's Orders. Couch. Cuddles. No arguments."
Danny’s cheeks pink, but he nods. "Yes…Daddy."
We settle on the L-shaped couch with its deep cushions, soft throw blankets. I pull him close, his head on my chest, massive frame curling into me surprisingly small.
“Here, try this, I say as I reach for a pacifier from the drawer—he takes it gratefully, sucking soft, his dragon stuffie tucked under his arm.
As Danny’s breathing deepens, drifting off, I stroke his hair.
This—him peaceful, trusting—hitsdifferent.
It’s ways more than just attraction, the physical pull.
This is care. Protection. Love, maybe brewing fast.
But as Danny begins to snore lightly, the realities of the situation loom: cities apart, my hours, his travels.
Fuck. It’s complicated as hell.
Yet holding him as he sleeps, the city humming below... I'm all in. Ready to navigate it.
For this boy? I might be ready to do whatever it takes.
