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I stare at him, then shake myself out of it and look back at the bed.

Right.

Laundry.

There are moments in life when I wonder exactly what version of myself twenty years ago would think if he could see me now.

Twenty-year-old Adrien Delmonte, fresh out of Coronado with a rifle and a chip on his shoulder, would probably assume this is some bizarre punishment.

Forty-year-old me strips a piss-soaked fitted sheet off a mattress while a kidnapped nineteen-year-old sleeps and thinks the whole thing is disturbingly close to domestic bliss.

Maybe Quillan isn’t the only one who took something today.

I bundle the sheets up, and find that the waterproof cover did its job—the mattress is dry.

I wipe the protector down anyway with a damp cloth, then spray it lightly with the bottle from under the sink and leave it exposed to air while I carry the laundry to the machine in the hall.

Cold rinse first, a capful of detergent, and a splash of enzyme cleaner should do the trick.

I start the washer and stand there watching the drum turn for longer than necessary, water sloshing against the glass door, clothes tumbling over one another in slow circles.

I already bought Kamden basic supplies, but that was before this development. I pull my phone from my pocket, ready to search, then stop, because what does he actually need?

I don’t know enough about what sort of little he’ll be. Is he one who’d like the feeling of a diaper hugging his hips, or is he one who’d rather die than wear one? Is he a bottle baby, or would a sippy cup be better…?

I need to chill. Fuck. I only just introduced the concept of Daddies and littles to him—there’s no need to order an entire nursery today. In fact, it’d be insane.

Especially considering this is a temporary housing situation. If anything, I should buy a few different things for him to try, but leave the rest for when we get home.

I’ve got to start small. Give him some options.

I spend a solid five minutes down the rabbit hole of specialty websites, open tabs multiplying by the second, and I’m halfway through a customer review about a brand of ultra-discreet overnight pull-ups when I realize I’ve been standing in the laundry room staring at my phone while Kamden is passed out on a chair, wrapped up like a burrito, and alone.

Shit.

I pocket the phone and grab an extra throw blanket from the hall closet. The washer sloshes behind me as I walk back to his bedroom, the bundle of fabric warming in my arms.

He hasn’t moved. Not even a little bit. His head has settled at an angle that would give me a herniated disc, but he looks perfectly at peace, lips parted, cheek squished pink against the blanket.

“Hey, baby,” I murmur, keeping my voice low. His eyelashes twitch but nothing else.

I lay the extra blanket out over the mattress—no sheet, but it’ll do for now—and then, careful as a bomb tech, I scoop him out of the chair. He’s as limp as a ragdoll, his bunny squashed between us. I ease him down onto the mattress, adjust the blanket around him, and sit beside him on the bed. I thumb my phone back to life and resume my search, scrolling through one of the websites with overnight shipping and comparing different adult pacifiers, stuffies, diapers, training pants, adorable onesies, and chewable necklaces.

There’s a stomach-twisting satisfaction in imagining what he’d look like in each thing, what would make him smile or, more likely, fidget and blush as he tried not to smile.

I keep the cart small, and avoid anything with phrases like Daddy’s Little Slut like the plague. I have no issue with people who enjoy that sort of thing—pretty sure Quillan does—but my little sweetheart is far too pure and sensitive for that kind of vulgarity. Honestly, I think he’d start crying if I called him a slut, even if it was meant in a sexy, teasing kind of way.

Kamden’s hand drifts in sleep, searching until it finds the curve of my hip. He doesn’t wake, but his fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, anchoring himself as if he’s afraid I might get up and disappear.

I shift farther onto the bed instead of leaving, propping myself against the headboard carefully enough not to disturb him, and Kamden follows the movement without waking. His body turns toward mine, forehead brushing my thigh, his fist tightening once in my shirt before relaxing again as soon as he realizes I’m still here.

I look back down at the endless assortment of pastel plastic and padded clothing glowing on my phone screen, but suddenly none of it feels quite specific enough.

Pacifiers. Cups. Onesies. Soft toys.

Little things.

Things a little might like.