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I said it because, in that moment, no other word fit the instinct tearing through me—raw, possessive, and terrifyingly tender. He looked at me like he needed something he didn’t understand how to ask for—eyes wide, lips parted, utterly surrendered.

I have not lost control like that in years.

Maybe ever.

Even at clubs, even with experienced boys who knew exactly what they wanted and came to me specifically because they wanted a Daddy who would take them apart and put them back together, I always controlled the pace.

Always.

That’s the fucking point. They lose control; I don’t.

Kamden made me crack. Not by doing anything deliberate, not by purposefully seducing me and whispering sweet obscenities. He softened. He let go.

He let me take care of him, when honestly, he shouldn’t have. I fucking kidnapped him. I stalked him, knocked him out, tied him up, and plan on never releasing him.

There’s no reason for him to look at me and subconsciously think that I’ll keep him safe if he lets go.

I close the fridge, then open it again because I still haven’t taken anything out.

Water first.

I grab a bottle, then some strawberries and the little cheese squares I bought because apparently I am now a man who keeps individually wrapped cheese just in case his captive wants it, put everything on a small plate, and grab one of the bendy straws he likes.

John trusted me with Kammie.

That’s the justification.

Except John absolutely did not lie dying under concrete thinking, Adrien, when my son is nineteen, please discover that he goes soft under praise. Please start a sexual relationship with him. Promise me, Adrien.

That would have been useful clarification.

But he trusted me with Kamden, trusted me to understand him, to protect him, and to give him what he needed.

And today, Kammie showed me.

Not with words, but with every other part of himself. He wanted softness, structure, praise. He wanted to be held by someone strong enough that he could stop thinking for a while.

He wanted care.

And is that really so fucking surprising?

His entire life has been one long exercise in taking care of himself too young. Of course there’s a part of him who wants to hand the weight over.

And God help me, I want it.

I want him handing it to me.

I want the questions—can I have this, is this allowed, how much time do I get—asked in that careful voice like he’s testing the water before he puts a toe in.

I want the shy little glances over the edge of a sketchbook to see if I’m watching.

I want the way his face lights when I tell him he’s done something right, cheeks going pink first, then the smile sneaking up on him like he didn’t mean for it to happen.

I want to feed him strawberries one at a time and watch him chew them slowly because somebody finally told him that it’s okay to slow down.

I want to dress him in the soft things I picked out and see his fingers keep rubbing the fabric between them like he can’t believe it’s real and his.

I want to buy him things—more sketchbooks, better pencils, bath toys, maybe some stuffed animal friends for his rabbit—and watch him unwrap each one with that carefulness like the paper might bite if he moves too fast.