Page 2 of Hush, Little Baby

Who knows?

That’s the problem.

I close my eyes.

I can’t stay here tonight.

The thought comes out of nowhere, but once it’s there, it sticks.

If I stay here, I’m just going to spiral. I can already feel it starting—that tight, suffocating feeling in my chest, the way my thoughts start looping and turning ugly.

Worthless. Dramatic. Lazy. Fine. You’re fine. Stop making it a thing—

“No,” I mutter, shaking my head as if I can physically knock the thoughts loose. “Nope. Not doing that tonight.” My voice sounds small in the empty apartment.

I push away from the counter and shuffle toward my bedroom, grabbing my hoodie off the back of the chair. It’s the gray one, soft from years of washing, oversized in the way that means the sleeves hang past my knuckles if I don’t push them up. I tug it on and bury my hands in the fabric for a second before I make sure I have my keys and phone.

I hesitate at the mirror by the door.

My face looks tired in the way that sleep doesn’t fix. I’m five-foot-six, and the hoodie hides most of me, which is the point. I know what’s under it. The soft places, the stretch marks fanned out across my hips and belly. I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror below the shoulders in almost a year. The last time I did, I stood there for too long and felt something go quiet inside me that I haven’t been able to get loud again.

“No one wants me anyway,” I tell my reflection. My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to. “It doesn’t matter.”

The drive over feels longer than usual, even though it’s not. My hands feel stiff on the steering wheel, and I have to adjust my grip every few minutes, flexing my fingers to keep them from locking up.

But as the familiar sign comes into view, something in my chest loosens.

The club doesn’t look like much from the outside. I’ve never seen one that does. That’s kind of the point. If you didn’t know what it was, you’d probably just assume it was another bar or some kind of private lounge.

I pull in and park in their small lot, taking a second before I get out of the car. My body’s already protesting the short walk I’m about to make, fatigue dragging at my limbs like I’m wading through sludge.

Still, I manage.

“Hey, Charlie,” Lana from the front desk greets me, her outfit tonight just as tight and sexy as ever. Her long blonde hair is tied up in a sleek, high pony, and her cheekbones are highlighted to the gods.

“Hi, Lana,” I say back to her. “Is it busy tonight?”

I hope not.

I really, really prefer when I get the little room all to myself.

“More or less,” she answers, giving me a sympathetic smile. “There’s a rope demo in a few minutes in the dungeon, though, and I think that’s where most of them are.”

“Okay.”

I go to walk in when she calls out, “Oh, happy early birthday, by the way! I saw it on your membership profile.”

“Oh… thank you,” I murmur in response. She doesn’t know. She’s just trying to be nice.

Inside, the club’s music is set at a deliberate hush, a throbbing heartbeat muffled beneath the low hum of conversation and the occasional metallic clink of ice in glasses. The main lounge area is bathed in a soft, amber glow that manages to be both flattering and faintly unreal, as if the air itself is thickened by the low light and the secrecy of the place. I hover by the entrance for a moment longer, letting the warmth and the subtle scent of leather and clove soak into me, then start my walk, with my chin tucked and my gaze fixed on the carpet patterns. I pass by alcoves and private rooms whose doors are drawn or cracked open just enough to hint at the silhouettes within. Bits of laughter slip out, and sometimes the wordless pulse of something more desperate or delighted, but I block them out with practiced indifference. Here, exposure is both the currency and the risk, and I want as little of it as possible.

I walk faster, ignoring the pairs and trios populating the velvet booths or perched along the bar, all with their own choreography of hands and mouths and glances. There are people here I recognize—sometimes from other nights, sometimes from the flash of a profile photo in a message thread that never went anywhere—but I don’t acknowledge any of them. Instead, I focus on the hallway at the far end, where the lights get a bit brighter and the sounds from the main areas start to die down just a little.

That’s where my room is.

Well, not really my room, as much as I sometimes like to pretend it is.

We call it the little room, but it’s not always for littles. Sometimes it’s for anyone who can’t breathe in the main dungeon or who wants to be small and unremarkable for a while. There’s a sign on the door that says, “Please respect the space and each other,” and I always do.