Page 12 of Master Daddy

The drive back to my cabin takes me along the winding forest road as the sun dips behind the mountains, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples.

By the time I pull up to the sturdy log home I built with my own two hands five years ago, the chill of the evening has settled in. I kill the engine and sit for a second, listening to the quiet creak of the trees and the distant call of a loon out on the lake.

Home.

Even after all these years splitting my life between the rig and here, stepping inside still feels like the best kind of reset.

I kick off my boots by the door, hang up my jacket, and head straight for the kitchen. The big cast-iron pot of beef stew I threw together this morning has been simmering on low all day—chunks of tender meat, carrots, potatoes, and thick gravy filled with herbs from the little garden out back.

I ladle a generous portion into a deep bowl, grab a cold can of beer from the fridge, and carry everything over to the heavy leather armchair in front of the stone fireplace.

The fire’s up and running quick enough in between spoonfuls of stew.

I settle in, propping my feet up on the worn ottoman, and take a long pull from the beer. The first spoonful of stew hits my tongue and I let out a satisfied groan. Rich, savory, perfect after the sauna and cold plunge.

My body feels loose, muscles warm and recovered in that deep, satisfying way only contrast therapy can deliver.

Kaleb might be onto something with that wellness spot after all.

Not that I’ll ever admit it to his face!

An old jazz station hums softly from the vintage radio on the mantel… Miles Davis, smooth trumpet notes curling through the room like woodsmoke.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the heat from the fire soak into my skin, the stew warm my belly, and the beer take the edge off.

It’s been a damn good day. Good coffee, banter with Kaleb, pushing my limits in the ice. I feel rested. Replenished. Like the man I want to be when I’m home.

But even with all that contentment settling over me, my mind keeps circling back to one person.

Luke.

I can still see him behind that counter at the stationary store, his arms folded, that sassy little smirk, the way his eyes lit up when I handed him the notebook.

The spark between us had been real. Undeniable.

I shift in the chair, my cock stirring at the memory of his full lips forming the words We’ll see about that, mister.

Hell. That mouth. That body. The way he blushed but didn’t back down when I called him little one…

I take another bite of stew, chewing slowly as the fire pops and snaps. Luke has got me thinking things I haven’t let myself think about in years.

Not just fucking him—though God knows I’ve imagined that in vivid detail—but actually being with him. Guiding the boy. Protecting him. Being the kind of Daddy who makes sure he eats right, trains smart, and feels safe enough to let go of all that sass and melt for me.

I set the empty bowl on the side table and crack open a second beer.

The jazz has shifted into something slower, sultrier. Coltrane, maybe. My thoughts drift further.

What if I put together a real training program for Luke? Not just showing up and spotting him on the bench, but something structured. Progressive overload tailored to his goals. A plan that’ll smash his contest with Milo and leave him stronger, prouder, glowing with achievement…

I can already picture his face when he hits that new PR: eyes shining, throwing his arms around me in excitement, pressing that proud chest against mine while he thanks his Daddy for helping him win.

A low growl rumbles in my chest.

Yeah. That sounds fucking perfect.

I finish the beer, stand up, and stretch my arms overhead until my shoulders pop. The cabin feels warmer now, cozier. I head over to the big oak desk in the corner by the window, fire up my laptop, and pull out a fresh legal pad.

It’s time to get to work.