Page 137

He needs both.

I know enough about the state he slipped into in that bathroom—the slow blink of his eyes, the pliant way his body yielded to my touch—to know the crash can come fast if I’m careless.

I’m still unsure whether he fell into littlespace or a general subspace, but both require aftercare.

Am I hoping it’s one over the other? Yeah. I mean, I can work with Kamden being a sub, no matter the kind, but a little? One who would only ever be mine? One who fell so deep that he lost his words altogether? Fucking hell. I don’t want to assume things. I really don’t. But could he naturally be an older little or middle, and regress so far that he’s practically a baby? It’d make sense.

Do I have the skill to figure this out, or am I just projecting my own fucked-up wish fulfillment onto every needy gesture of his? Everything I’ve seen points toward him being submissive—the way he looks at your hands before he meets your eyes, the way his voice goes smaller when he feels safe. But the other piece—the age-play—how deep does it go? The way he swayed toward my hands in the bath, the way he let me dress him, the way he curled into my arms after, and the way he looked at that damn rabbit before anything else in the room…

I could work with Kamden being a sub. I could more than work with it—I could build an entire life around it, if I let myself want that. But the idea of him regressing, of him sinking down to a space where I could take care of his every single need, where he could let go of absolutely everything and be soft in every way—it short-circuits something in me. It pokes at this feral fucking urge to protect, to possess, to fix.

Is that what I want? For him to need me that much? But what if I’m reading regression into what is just a desperate, traumatized kid looking for any handhold?

No. I’ve seen the way his face changes when I call him sweetheart, when I tell him he’s been good. The way he holds his stuffie like it’s holding him back.

In the bath, I couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop thinking about how best to keep him safe, couldn’t stop imagining the hundred small ways I could make his world gentler.

I open the refrigerator and stare inside without really looking at anything.

What the hell did I just do?

No. Wrong question.

I know exactly what I did. I washed his hair and watched him tilt his head back into my palms as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I soaped his shoulders and felt him shiver under my touch.

What I’m trying to understand is why. Because I didn’t go into that bathroom intending to touch him sexually.

I’m not pretending intention erases what happened—the way his skin warmed under my hands, the hitch in his breath when I praised him. But I need to understand myself.

I went in there because Kamden needed a bath—simple as that.

He wasn’t safe in a shower restrained. He’d have slipped and cracked his fucking skull in. And I wasn’t willing to let him shower unrestrained, not with that look in his eyes like a spooked animal ready to run.

I knew seeing him naked would be difficult.

I have eyes.

The boy is fucking beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair—soft where I like soft, smooth skin stretched over lean muscle, long legs that seem to go on forever, a narrow waist my hands can nearly span.

Every shy little flush traveled visibly down his body as if he had no way to hide anything from me—chest to stomach to thighs, pink and telling.

I knew it would be difficult, but I’d planned on keeping it quick. Wash him, rinse him, dry him off, get him dressed.

That’s it.

But somewhere between washing his hair and cleaning his shoulders, Kamden stopped holding himself so tightly. His breathing changed, deeper, slower, like he was falling asleep standing up. The little noises started—soft hums, sighs that caught in his throat. Then the way he responded to my voice—leaning into it like sunlight.

My praise.

That’s it.

Good boy.

Let Daddy take care of you.

Daddy.

I grip the refrigerator door until my knuckles whiten.