Chapter Ten: Little Day
663 Words
The storm started overnight.
Not the kind with thunder. The quiet kind. A slow, creeping heaviness that built in Ari’s chest until her limbs felt like sandbags and her thoughts wouldn't sit still.
She didn’t sleep much.
Couldn’t.
The accusation still hung in the air like smoke, even though no one said a word about it. She caught a few glances in the hallway. One student avoided her altogether. Penny stayed close, but even she seemed... cautious.
The walls were closing in.
And the worst part was: it felt familiar.
Like every time the system turned on her. Like every home that promised, then punished.
She wasn’t sure what she’d do if Eden Hollow did the same.
Jasper found her in the sunroom the next morning, curled in the same chair she’d once cried in, knees pulled to her chest, the fox tucked tight under her arm.
He crouched down slowly.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
She looked up, startled. He’d never used a pet name before.
Not like that.
Not gently.
Not safe.
“You look full of too many thoughts,” he said, voice soft but steady. “Wanna do a Little Day with me?”
Ari frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“It means no decisions. No pressure. No big feelings unless they want to come out. You pick a comfy outfit, and I handle the rest. Meals, play, rest, even quiet snuggles. Just one day for you to be.”
Her walls shot up. “I’m not a toddler.”
“Nope. You’re Ari. And I’m offering care. You can say no.”
She wanted to.
She should’ve.
But her whole body ached with the need to say yes.
“…Okay,” she whispered.
Jasper smiled. “Good girl.”
And her stomach flipped.
He helped her change into soft cotton leggings and an oversized sweatshirt with sleepy clouds on it. He braided her hair loosely and let her pick socks with stars. He didn’t laugh when she clung to her fox the entire time.
Then he brought her to the caregiver lounge—a quiet room filled with weighted blankets, squishmallows, and soft instrumental music playing low in the background.
No questions.
No pressure.
He offered her a sippy cup—not a baby bottle, just something small and calming—and she accepted it with both hands, sipping slowly as she curled against his side.
They didn’t talk.
She just was.
Warm. Cared for.
Little.
Later, he helped her paint with her fingers—big, messy stars and moons across black paper. She giggled when he accidentally got yellow on his nose. He gasped dramatically and called her a rascal. She called him “Mr. Bossypants.”
And he said, “You mean Daddy Bossypants?”
She paused.
Then gave him a shy little nod.
“…Yeah.”
It felt okay this time.
It felt right.
By midday, she was yawning against his shoulder.
He carried her—actually carried her—to a nap nook, laid her on soft blankets, and stayed there while she drifted off. He read a few lines from a storybook until her breathing slowed and her fingers relaxed around his shirt.
She hadn’t had a nap like that since...
Well.
Since never.
When she woke, warm and safe, he was still there.
Still steady.
Still Daddy.
And she whispered, “I don’t want this to end.”
He tucked the blanket higher around her shoulders. “It doesn’t have to. Not if you don’t want it to.”
She blinked at him.
“I’m allowed to stay little?”
“You’re allowed to be whatever you need,” he said. “Little, big, messy, quiet. All of it.”
Ari pressed her face to his chest and mumbled, “You’re my Daddy.”
It was the first time she’d said it without flinching.
And he didn’t say anything grand in return.
Just held her tighter.
Like he already knew.
- Writer
