Page 36 of Hush, Little Baby

His mouth tightens, but the praise goes through him anyway. I see it in the slight hitch of his shoulders, the way his lashes lower, the way his face tilts toward the cloth as if he can hide inside the task.

“Don’t,” he says again, but it has become more reflex than protest.

“Don’t what?”

“Say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because it makes you feel little?”

His hand freezes against his cheek.

The room seems to narrow around us, steam and silence, and the soft, steady sound of the bathwater settling.

Charlie does not breathe.

I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees, keeping my voice low enough that it has to reach him gently. “That is what you call it, isn’t it?”

His eyes shine. “No.”

“Charlie.”

“It’s not—” He shakes his head, frantic again. “It’s not like that. It’s just stress relief. It’s not weird. I’m not—”

“I didn’t call it weird, sweetheart.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“You know that isn’t true, Charlie. Why on Earth would I? Think about it. Think about how I found you, and how I told you that I’m your new Daddy. Now, why would I think you being little is weird?”

His lips part.

Then he folds.

He turns his face away, covers his mouth with both hands, and begins to cry so quietly that I almost wish he would sob instead. Sobs would be easier. Sobs are forceful, cleansing, and loud enough to be heard. This is worse. This is grief trying to make itself small enough not to inconvenience anyone.

I stand and get a towel. Charlie doesn’t seem to notice I’ve moved until I go to drain the tub.

The sound startles him. His head jerks up, eyes wide and red, hands still pressed over his mouth.

“Bath’s done,” I say.

His gaze darts down to himself, then back to me, panic flaring again through the exhaustion. “I can get out.”

“I know.”

“And dress myself.”

“You could.”

That tiny, doomed hope returns. “Then—”

“But you won’t.”

His eyes close.