CHAPTER 4: THE DISTANCE SAFETY NET

POV: Callum Miller

The smell of black coffee and charred bacon filled the kitchen.

I sat at the dark wooden dining table, my knees pressed tightly together under the mahogany surface. Morning light poured through the tall windows, cruel and unforgiving. It highlighted every smudge on the glass, every stray coffee ring on the granite counter—and, I was certain, every drop of shameful secret I was trying to bury under my skin.

Clang.

My father slammed a heavy cast-iron skillet onto the stovetop, the loud metallic crack making me flinch.

“Posture, Callum,” Harlan grunted without turning around. He stood in his grey workout shirt, his broad, corded back taut as he scooped scrambled eggs onto two white plates. “You’re slouching again. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders before seven in the morning.”

I snapped my spine straight instantly, rolling my shoulders back. “Sorry, Dad.”

“Don't apologize. Fix it,” he replied, his tone sharp, clipped, and devoid of warmth. He grabbed the plates and walked over, dropping one in front of me with a dull thud before pulling out the chair opposite mine.

Harlan sat down, his posture pristine, his grey-tinged hair cropped in the same precise military cut he’d maintained for thirty years. He eyed my plate, then looked up, his dark eyes narrowing as they locked onto my face.

“You look pale,” he observed, picking up his fork. “Did you stay up late scrolling on that phone again?”

My pulse did a frantic, stuttering leap against my throat. I reached for my glass of orange juice, taking a deliberate sip to buy myself a second of composure.

“No, Dad,” I lied, keeping my voice as flat as possible. “Just couldn't sleep. Had a slight headache.”

“A headache comes from a lack of discipline,” Harlan said, pointing his fork at me. “You’re nineteen years old. You should be waking up at five thirty, getting a five-mile run in, and prepping your mind for the day. You’re letting yourself get soft, Callum. I see it in your posture. I see it in the way you drag your feet.”

“I’m doing fine in my classes,” I mumbled, picking up a piece of dry toast.

“I don't care about just passing classes!” Harlan’s voice boomed, cutting through the quiet kitchen like a whip. He set his fork down with a loud click. “The world outside this house doesn't give a damn about a boy who just gets by. You need backbone. You need grit. When I was your age, I was leading men in tactical drills. I didn't sit around moping over headaches.”

“I know, Dad,” I said quietly, staring down at my untouched eggs.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he commanded.

I lifted my chin, staring straight into my father’s cold, stern eyes. “I know, Dad. I’ll do better.”

“Damn right you will,” Harlan grunted, seemingly satisfied for the moment as he picked his fork back up. “I didn't raise a weakling. You’re a Miller. Start acting like one.”

A weakling.

If he knew what I had done in my bed six hours ago... if he knew the filthy, desperate words I had typed to a total stranger... he wouldn't just call me weak. He’d throw me out of this house before the sun fully rose.

A cold wave of anxiety washed over me, making my hands shake slightly under the table. To anchor myself, my fingers slid into the pocket of my jeans, feeling the hard, rectangular outline of my phone.

I squeezed it tight.

I needed to check. I needed to see the distance. I needed the reminder that the man who had called me sweet boy last night was safely buried behind miles of highway, completely removed from this cold, suffocating room.

I waited until Harlan looked down to cut his bacon. With practiced, silent precision, I slipped my phone out of my pocket, keeping it hidden beneath the edge of the dark tablecloth resting over my lap.

I unlocked the screen with a light tap, shielding the blue glow with my hand. I opened the app, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The profile icon of DomDaddy sat at the top of my inbox.

My eyes darted straight to the small grey text beneath his name:

Distance: 48 km away.

A long, silent breath of relief leaked from my lungs. Forty-eight kilometers. Almost thirty miles. He was far away in another town, trapped behind a digital screen, completely unaware of the rigid military man sitting two feet across from me.

The distance was my safety net. It was the only thing keeping this thrilling, filthy fantasy from destroying my real life.

Suddenly, a tiny blue notification bubble popped up.

DomDaddy: Good morning, handsome.

I flinched, my thumb twitching over the screen. He was awake. He was messaging me while my father sat right across from me.

My heart pounded with a mix of sheer terror and sick, addictive excitement. I kept my phone low under the table, my fingers flying quietly over the keyboard.

Good morning, Daddy, I sent back, my cheeks burning at the title.

DomDaddy: Have you eaten yet? Or are you sitting there starving yourself because you’re nervous?

My jaw nearly dropped. How did he always do that? How did he read me so easily through text?

I’m at the breakfast table, I typed, chancing a quick glance up at Harlan. My father was chewing silently, reading a printed news article on his tablet, completely oblivious.

My dad is right in front of me, I added, sending the message with a trembling thumb.

The three little dots appeared instantly.

DomDaddy: Is that so? Sitting right across from your dad while you secretly text your real Daddy under the table? You’re a brave little boy, aren't you?

A violent surge of heat shot straight down into my core, pooling right between my thighs. My breath hitched sharply. I pressed my knees tightly together under the table, trying to crush the sudden, embarrassing throb starting in my trousers.

I’m not brave, I replied, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone onto my lap. I’m terrified.

DomDaddy: Don't be scared, sweet boy. I’m right here. Now eat your breakfast. Clean your plate for me. I like my young submissives healthy and well-fed.

My chest swelled with an intense, suffocating wave of affection and obedience. Harlan had spent the last ten minutes barking orders at me, making me feel small and pathetic. But DomDaddy... DomDaddy commanded me with a heavy, possessive warmth that made me want to listen. He made me feel taken care of, even while giving orders.

Okay, Daddy, I typed back. I’ll eat.

DomDaddy: Good boy. Tell me when you’re done. And sweet boy?

Yeah? I replied.

DomDaddy: Don't forget who you belong to today.

My chest heaved, a dark, hot crimson flush creeping up my neck and burning my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief second, overcome by the sheer weight of his control over me from miles away.

“Callum!”

I gasped aloud, jumping in my seat. My phone slipped from my sweaty fingers, tumbling into my lap beneath the tablecloth. I scrambled to catch it, pressing it flat against my thigh as I whipped my head up to face my father.

Harlan was staring at me, his eyebrows pulled low in a furious, dark scowl.

“Are you deaf?” Harlan barked, leaning forward across the table. “I’ve been calling your name for twenty seconds!”

“I... I’m sorry, Dad!” I stuttered, my chest heaving as I tried to regain control of my frantic breathing. “I was just... lost in thought.”

Harlan’s sharp eyes tracked the deep red flush on my face, hovering over my trembling lips and my rigid, terrified posture. He squinted, his gaze piercing through me like a bayonet.

“What the hell is wrong with you this morning?” Harlan demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re jumping at shadows, your face is beet red, and you look like you’re about to pass out over a plate of eggs.”

“Nothing’s wrong!” I blurted out, my voice cracking slightly. I quickly grabbed my fork, shoving a giant mouthful of cold eggs into my mouth to stop myself from talking. I chewed frantically, swallowing it down before looking back up at him. “I’m fine. See? I’m eating.”

Harlan stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. The silence in the kitchen was deafening, heavy enough to drown in.

Finally, Harlan scoffed, shaking his head in sheer disgust as he picked up his coffee mug.

“Unbelievable,” Harlan muttered, taking a sip. “Nineteen years old and you still can't handle a simple conversation without panicking. Finish your plate and get your coat. You’re going to be late for campus.”

“Yes, Dad,” I whispered.

Under the table, my hand slid back down to my lap, my trembling fingers turning the phone screen off.

I looked up at my father, who was ignoring me again, staring cold and distant at his tablet. Then I felt the weight of the phone in my hand.

Forty-eight kilometers away, a man who didn't even know my real name owned me more than the man who raised me. And as terrified as I was... I had never felt safer.