Cloth Diapers & Panties

I literally think you nailed what 17 up me would have melted for if I saw Harley in that outfit haha.  So so thankful for these chapters. At first I was confused since several people at the clinic saw him when savvy brought him, and he went back with his family, it seemed like today many of the people there didn't know him. Like a weird flow. It did improve with Erika explaining her observations in intake.  Amber frustrated me today. She surely didn't show up as a friend for Paul, and for her obsessing her thoughts all night about Paul she didn't let her words or actions evidence that at all.  I wonder if Marcus heard the little guy comment? Haha great song choice. Surprised it wasn't Melanie Martinez frilly socks to compliment Harleys outfit. Or the song cry baby.  I thought for sure Harley would have had him in the back. Can't wait for the next chapter now . Thank you for the extra post 

I ended up sleeping a fairly decent 2 hour nap which clearly was needed. I slept snuggled up not realizing it was my pooh bear as i looked too cute as i sucked my fingers.

Dream is to be forced into and humiliated for wearing diapers but becoming so used to them that I need them. Real life wish is to be accepted as incontinent

I kind of intended it to be about a month originally, but the number of times we skipped "several days" between scenes, or enough time passed for her to get used to a new routine, it just didn't feel like it would be believable.

Because I'm a sucker for 4am chapter drops which inculdes an "Easter Egg" from when we 1st indtroduced Harley. Here you all go, something to start the week off & hopfully leaving you wanting more.....     Chapter Ninety-Six: The conference room settled gradually. Coffee lids twisted open. Tablets chimed awake. Chairs scraped softly against tile. Sunlight filtered through the half-drawn blinds, striping the long table in warm bands of gold. This wasn’t a crisis meeting—no alarms, no urgency—but there was a seriousness in the way everyone leaned forward without being asked. Dr. Mindy Rowe didn’t rush to begin. She waited until everyone had arrived, until the side conversations naturally tapered off. “Thank you for making the time this morning,” she began, hands resting lightly on a slim folder. “I want to walk everyone through a case that will be joining us for long-term care. This one will ask a bit more of us—not just clinically, but in how we think about pediatric treatment.” A few nods. Pens stilled. “Our patient’s name is Paul Alexander Goldhawk,” Mindy continued. “He’s seventeen—turning eighteen soon—and he has been diagnosed with Somatic Neuromuscular Disregulation, or SND for short.” A few staff members nodded; others leaned forward. “This is a chronic, stress-triggered disorder,” Mindy said, tapping the screen behind her as a simplified diagram appeared. “At its core, it’s an exaggerated and dysregulated physical response to emotional or physiological stress. It affects both the autonomic nervous system and muscle response.” She spoke clearly, without jargon for its own sake. “In this patient’s case, SND presents in two primary clusters. First—stress incontinence. Bladder involvement is consistent and significant. Bowel involvement is less frequent but increasing, and we should expect variability.” She glanced briefly at Nia, then continued. “Second—mild neuropathy and myopathy. You’ll see fatigue, altered gait at times, tremors under stress, and delayed muscular response. Think of it as neurological static—signals get crossed, muscles don’t always respond when asked.” Mindy folded her hands. “At its simplest,” Mindy said, “Paul’s nervous system does not de-escalate on its own. Stress—emotional or physical—triggers exaggerated body responses. Bladder control, muscle tone, gait, fatigue. His body reacts before his cognition can catch up.” Several heads tilted slightly—recognition from intake notes. “Paul is seventeen, turning eighteen soon,” Mindy continued. “State regulations allow pediatric classification until age twenty-one, and in certain cases longer. Paul will be under our care for at least the next year up to four.” She let that land. “This makes him something of a test case,” she said frankly. “Not experimental—but precedent-setting. How we support him may open doors for future patients whose needs are best met within pediatric models, even as they age.” Mindy shifted her weight, eyes sweeping the room. “Paul is intelligent, articulate, and capable of understanding complex instructions. However,” she said, emphasizing the word, “his nervous system does not always allow him to execute those instructions under stress.” She didn’t soften that truth. “For now,” Mindy continued, “the default framework when interacting with Paul will be that of a toddler-level care model—unless he explicitly asks otherwise.” A few pens paused mid-note. Nurse Brittany raised her hand slightly. “So… when we say ‘treat him like a toddler,’ are we talking developmental delay, or—?” “Good question,” Mindy said immediately. “And no. Paul is cognitively intact. Bright. Verbally expressive. Capable of understanding complex instructions.” She leaned in. “But his regulation capacity under stress is closer to a two- or three-year-old. That’s the gap we’re beginning at because simply it works for him right now, based on his parents experiences and my own.” Nia crossed her arms thoughtfully. “So if he’s asking adult-level questions, but responding physically like a toddler… which do we follow?” Mindy smiled, appreciative. “We follow him. Always. But the default—when he’s overwhelmed—is safety-first care. The same care you’d offer a little one whose body is saying ‘too much.’” Eliska nodded, already knowing where this was going. “Soft voice,” Mindy continued. “Clear expectations. Reassurance. Predictable routines. Physical closeness if he consents. This does not mean we speak down to him,” Mindy clarified. “It means we prioritize safety, predictability, reassurance, and simplicity. Soft tone. Clear structure. Rhythmic language when needed. He may require frequent reassurance, physical comfort such as hugs, and tools to self-regulate—including a pacifier or sippy cup.” She didn’t shy away. “He is currently diapered full-time. Wet diapers are the norm. Recent notes show an increase in soiling as well. This is not regression for regression’s sake—it is symptom management.” No one looked surprised. No one looked uncomfortable. This was pediatrics. “There may be times,” Mindy said, “where you assist with changes. Where you help him transition. Where you pause a session because his body—not his will—has reached its limit. The same way we do for any of our patients who require similar care.”   Brittany frowned slightly, thoughtful. “What about dignity? I mean—teenagers already struggle with identity. How do we make sure we’re not… erasing him?” Mindy didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned to Eliska. “Would you mind sharing what you observed during intake?” Eliska straightened, a soft smile touching her face. “When Paul came in the second time,” she said, “he was sitting on the floor with the toy train. He hadn’t noticed me yet.” A few staff members smiled—already picturing it. “I approached the way I would any little one who looks unsure,” Eliska continued. “Slow. Gentle. No sudden questions.” She mimicked the moment unconsciously, hands moving as she spoke. “Oh my goodness,” she’d said then, delight aimed straight at him. “Look at you, sweetheart—playing so nicely with the choo-choo! I knew you’d love it, huh?” Eliska glanced around the table. “He responded immediately,” she said. “Relaxed. Engaged. Eye contact improved.” She went on, voice warming with the memory. “Chugga-chugga-chugga—chooo-chooo! Such a good little engineer you are. You makin’ that train go all the way ’round the world, hmm?” A small chuckle passed through the room—not mocking, appreciative. “I wasn’t pretending he was younger,” Eliska said. “I was meeting him where his body already was.” She smiled and then folded her hands. “He didn’t shrink. He settled.” That did it. That was the sentence that anchored the room. Mindy nodded. “Exactly.” She turned back to the group. “This is the core principle,” Mindy said. She let that land. “That is our default,” she continued. “We adjust upward as he signals readiness. Not the other way around.” Nia exhaled slowly. “Physical therapy?” “Twice a month minimum,” Mindy replied. “Likely more. When he and his mom Lilly come in for their appointment tomorrow, we’ll introduce you and then two weeks later you’ll begin working with him. We’ll be primarily focusing on muscle confidence, endurance, and trust in his body. There may be regression-based exercises. There may be moments where he needs to pause, lie down, or be comforted.” Mindy gestured toward the far end of the table. “At this time I’d also like to introduce Savannah, our newest resident.” Savannah stood, heart pounding but posture steady. “She has a prior connection to Paul and his family,” Mindy said. “During a recent stay three or four weeks previous, Savannah and her mother provided care using structured regression-based calming protocols.” A few eyebrows lifted—not judgment, curiosity. “Savannah,” Mindy said gently, “would you share what you observed?” Savannah inhaled once. “When Paul arrived,” she said carefully, “his baseline was extremely high. Constant vigilance. He expected failure before it happened.” She kept it measured. “When consistent comfort was introduced—low-demand environments, predictable routines—his stress responses dropped. No meltdowns. Improved sleep. Better appetite. His affect… softened.” She paused, emotion flickering but contained. “He wasn’t losing skills,” she added quietly. “He was conserving energy.” The room was still. Mindy closed the folder. “This is not about making Paul smaller,” she said. “It’s about giving his nervous system the safety it never learned to hold on to.” She looked around the table—one by one. “We will treat him with warmth, professionalism, and respect. Mommy-and-daddy energy when needed. Clinical boundaries always.” A final pause. “If you’re unsure,” Mindy finished, “ask. Adjust. And remember—our job isn’t to decide who Paul should be.” A small, steady smile. “It’s to help him heal into who he already is.” The room didn’t erupt into discussion. It didn’t need to. And Savannah, sitting back down with her hands folded tightly in her lap, felt something settle in her chest. She glanced down at the tablet still resting near Mindy’s place at the table—Paul Alexander Goldhawk, his name steady on the screen. She felt something settle—not a promise, not a plan—but a willingness. To learn him. To respect his pace. To stay, if he needed someone to stay. For now, that was enough, but she’d hoped beyond hope that one day, soon it may lead to something more.   Paul pushed his bedroom door open with his shoulder like he’d done it a thousand times. There was still grief in the air from the last week, still bruises you couldn’t see—but the walls weren’t screaming tonight. They were breathing. Paul stepped inside and shut the door. Not dramatically. Not like he was hiding. Just… closing it. He moved with purpose now—small bursts of confidence stitched into his body like he was trying them on, checking the seams. He unhooked the shortalls at the shoulder, fingers working the yellow buttons quickly, practiced. The denim loosened and fell away with a soft weight. From downstairs, Lilly’s voice floated up, casual and checking-in the way she’d learned to do without making it sound like surveillance. “Do you need any help getting undressed?” Paul didn’t even pause. “No—I’ve got it.” A beat. Then Lilly again, the sound of her smile audible even without seeing her. “Great. Make sure you hang up the onesie and shortalls, please. Shower, shave, and then when you’re ready for a change, look toward the camera and ask. I’ve turned the video off and audio on.” “Okay,” Paul called back, already moving. Then softer, more real: “Thanks.” He peeled the safari onesie up and over his head, careful—not because it was difficult, but because it was his body and he was learning how to treat it with patience instead of contempt. The room was warm. The air smelled faintly like baby powder and the cedar block Lilly insisted on keeping in the closet “to make everything feel like a hotel.” Paul hung the shortalls first—straightened the straps, hooked them neatly. Then the onesie, folded once and draped over the hanger like it mattered. He stood there for a moment, bare-chested, listening. No one rushed him. No one barged in. And something inside him—some old reflex—looked around for the punchline, the punishment, the humiliation that usually followed anything tender. Nothing came. Paul exhaled. He turned toward the dresser and opened the top drawer—his drawer, his choices. Not the safe bland choices people assumed he should make. His choices. Black onesie first. Then he reached for the jersey—his black, teal, and white San Jose Sharks hockey jersey. The fabric was familiar under his fingers: a piece of himself that had survived the last two months intact. Loud enough to feel like armor. Normal enough to feel like home. Then the acid-wash jeans, folded and ready. He set everything on the bed with intention, like laying out a plan. Then—without hesitating—he lowered the changing table. The hinges clicked softly. The surface came down smooth. Paul moved to the drawer and pulled out what he needed: a fresh pre-school diaper, wipes, powder, cream. He lined them up. Not like a kid playing pretend. Like someone taking responsibility for their own care. It didn’t make him feel proud in the way people expected pride to look. It wasn’t triumph. It wasn’t confidence roaring in his chest. It was quieter than that. It was the feeling of not turning away. Of not waiting for someone to rescue him from his own reality. He glanced at the camera in the corner—small, discreet, a necessary compromise. Video off. Audio on. The rules were clear. The dignity was… negotiated. Paul’s thoughts drifted as his hands moved. Today had been sad, but good. Sad because Dad was gone again, and even though the goodbye had been full of love, it had still left a hollow. Good because for once, Paul didn’t feel like he was collapsing into that hollow. He could feel it and still stand. Good because Amber had gotten some truth—enough truth that Paul’s chest didn’t seize every time he imagined rehearsal. He didn’t have to perform normal so aggressively anymore. Good because the play was starting to feel real again. And the weirdest part—maybe the most complicated part—was Leo. Leo wasn’t his friend. Not in the way Paul used the word friend. Leo was the freshman who got the role Paul wanted. Leo was the kid who walked into auditions with that hungry, clueless confidence only a younger actor could have—confidence that didn’t know what it was stepping on. Atticus was supposed to be Paul’s. Atticus required weight. Control. Maturity. The kind of stillness Paul had been training his whole life to carry on stage. Leo got it anyway. Paul had told himself he didn’t care. He’d even laughed about it once in the hallway, made a joke that landed well enough to keep people from seeing the bruise underneath. Then Leo reached out. Not publicly. Not in the group chat. Privately. A message that was almost… careful. At first Paul thought it was ass-kissing. A freshman trying to butter up the older lead so he didn’t get eaten alive by upperclassmen politics. But the longer Paul read the texts, the clearer it became: Leo wasn’t fishing for approval. He was asking for help. Can you tell me what I’m doing wrong in this scene? How do you… make it look like you’re not acting? Mr. Finch is supposed to be strong but he also… breaks. How do I do that without it being cheesy? Paul should’ve ignored him out of principle. Instead, something in him softened—something stubborn and unexpectedly generous. Paul loved coaching. Loved directing. Loved the quiet authority of seeing a scene from the outside and shaping it, making it sharper, truer. It was one of the only places next to acting he didn’t feel trapped in his own body. So he helped. Video calls late at night where Leo’s face filled the screen, sweaty and nervous, asking questions like he was genuinely afraid of ruining the role. Paul paused lines, rewound moments, gave direction in that calm, precise way that made him feel like himself again. Paul rubbed a hand over his face, caught himself smiling. And then the smile faded slightly, not into despair—into something softer. His dad’s words came back to him, not as a lecture but as an anchor: Whatever shape it takes. A future. Through tears. Through embarrassment. Through failure that felt like a public event. Paul had a future. He just wasn’t sure what it looked like yet. He stared at the supplies for a moment, then whispered to the empty room like it was a promise he could make without anyone hearing him crack. “Okay,” he told himself. “We’re doing it.”     Downstairs, Lilly set Paul’s diaper bag on the entrance table with the kind of care that would’ve looked ridiculous to anyone who didn’t understand what that bag represented. A safety net that had to be packed right, stocked right, ready at all times—because life didn’t wait for the nervous system to catch up. Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. Mindy Rowe. Lilly’s thumb hovered for half a beat before she opened it. Not fear. Not dread. Anticipation. Like checking test results. Like waiting for a verdict that could change the shape of the next week. The email loaded. Lilly read it once quickly—eyes scanning for the practical. Appointment time. Forms. Instructions. Then she read it again slower, and this time the words didn’t just land—they sank. The questions skew younger… that’s intentional. Developmental lens rather than age-based. Not meant to diminish Paul… meant to meet him exactly where his body is operating. Lilly’s throat tightened. Not because she disagreed. Because it named what she’d been living without saying out loud. Diaper frequency. Sleep cycles. Feeding methods. Play. Comfort tools. It was all there, listed cleanly, clinically—like someone had taken the messy reality of her life and organized it into a framework that made sense. Lilly reached the part where Mindy stepped out of doctor voice and into friend voice. I also want to say this not as Paul’s doctor for a moment, but as your friend first. The week you described—the college conversation, the emotional crash, Bryan preparing to leave again—any one of those would be destabilizing on its own. You navigated all of it with steadiness, honesty, and care. You didn’t try to force Paul through something his body wasn’t ready for. You stayed with him. You listened. You adjusted. That matters more than any checklist ever could. Lilly blinked hard. The compliment hit like relief and guilt at the same time. And then she reached the paragraph about the meltdown. Not regression as a failure… Paul’s nervous system choosing the safest place it knows how to land. Lilly’s hand pressed against her chest, as if she could calm her own heartbeat the way she calmed his. She didn’t think of Paul as a toddler. She thought of him as Paul—brilliant, stubborn, theatrical, sweet in the ways he tried to pretend he wasn’t. A young man carrying grief and shame and a body that sometimes betrayed him without warning. But Mindy’s words did something gentle and dangerous: They gave Lilly permission to stop arguing with the facts. To stop trying to make Paul’s healing look “appropriate.” Lilly exhaled slowly, eyes drifting up toward the ceiling, as if she could see through the floorboards into Paul’s room—into the small sounds of him moving, preparing, choosing. Planned, not crisis-driven, Mindy had written. Comfort on schedule instead of after shutdown. Lilly’s phone felt heavy in her hand. Then she straightened, because that was what she did—feel it, then move. She headed for the master bedroom, the one she’d turned into a command center without meaning to, she pulled open both doors and turning to her right sat…. Her laptop. Her tablet for the nanny cam. Her quiet place to be the adult in charge while the rest of the house tried to pretend it was normal. She sat down immediately and opened the new intake form. Her cursor hovered over the attachment link below the email: the new intake. She clicked. The blank form opened—clean, structured, waiting. And seeing it empty somehow made it worse, because emptiness meant choice: you have to name it. Pediatric Support Intake Form — Ongoing Care (Adapted Developmental & Regulation Tracking) Patient Name: ___________________________ Date Range Covered: _____________________ Completed By: ☐ Parent ☐ Caregiver ☐ Patient (with support) Primary Setting This Period: ☐ Home ☐ School ☐ Clinic ☐ Mixed 1. Diapering & Toileting (Quality-of-life + nervous system regulation indicator) Average Diaper Use Per Day: ☐ 2–3 ☐ 4–5 ☐ 6–7 ☐ 8+ Wet Diapers (average/day): ☐ 0–1 ☐ 2–3 ☐ 4–5 ☐ 6+ Messy Diapers (average/day): ☐ 0 ☐ 1 ☐ 2 ☐ 3+ Time(s) Most Likely to Be Messy: ☐ Morning ☐ Afternoon ☐ Evening ☐ Overnight Signs Before Needing Change: ☐ Verbal request ☐ Body cues ☐ Increased fussiness ☐ None noticeable Tolerance of Changes: ☐ Calm ☐ Needs reassurance ☐ Resistant ☐ Distressed Notes (rash, discomfort, accidents, concerns): 2. Sleep & Rest Patterns (Core regulation + recovery marker) Total Nighttime Sleep: ☐ <6 hrs ☐ 6–7 hrs ☐ 7–8 hrs ☐ 8–9 hrs ☐ 9+ hrs Bedtime: ____________ Wake Time: ____________ Night Wakings: ☐ None ☐ 1–2 ☐ 3+ Naps: ☐ None ☐ 1 short ☐ 1 long ☐ 2+ Nap Length (average): ☐ <30 min ☐ 30–60 min ☐ 60–90 min ☐ 90+ min Sleep Aids Used: ☐ Pacifier ☐ Plush/toy ☐ Bottle ☐ Music ☐ Rocking ☐ Other ______ Overall Sleep Quality: ☐ Restful ☐ Fair ☐ Fragmented ☐ Poor 3. Fluids & Hydration (Autonomic regulation + energy stability) Water (sippy/cup): ☐ <16 oz ☐ 16–24 oz ☐ 24–32 oz ☐ 32+ oz Milk: ☐ None ☐ 1–2 servings ☐ 3+ servings Juice: ☐ None ☐ 1 small ☐ 2+ small Formula / Supplemental Drinks: ______________________ Preferred Drinking Method: ☐ Open cup ☐ Sippy cup ☐ Straw cup ☐ Bottle Any Refusal or Difficulty Drinking? ☐ No ☐ Sometimes ☐ Often 4. Nutrition & Eating Habits (Energy, mood, and physical endurance support) Meals Per Day: ☐ 1–2 ☐ 3 ☐ 4+ Meal Completion: ☐ Full meals ☐ Partial meals ☐ Grazing/snacking Snacks Per Day: ☐ None ☐ 1–2 ☐ 3–4 ☐ 5+ Texture Preferences: ☐ Soft ☐ Crunchy ☐ Mixed ☐ Liquids only at times Feeding Support Needed: ☐ Independent ☐ Verbal encouragement ☐ Hands-on help Any Food Avoidance or Sensory Issues Noted? 5. Play, Movement & Screen Time (Developmental engagement + nervous system discharge) Active Play (daily): ☐ <30 min ☐ 30–60 min ☐ 1–2 hrs ☐ 2+ hrs Type of Play (check all that apply): ☐ Gross motor ☐ Fine motor ☐ Pretend ☐ Sensory ☐ Quiet/solo Screen Time: ☐ None ☐ <1 hr ☐ 1–2 hrs ☐ 2+ hrs Response After Screen Time: ☐ Calm ☐ Neutral ☐ Dysregulated ☐ Meltdowns increase 6. Emotional Regulation & Meltdowns (Primary symptom tracking) Meltdowns This Period: ☐ None ☐ 1–2 ☐ 3–5 ☐ 6+ Typical Locations: ☐ Home ☐ School ☐ Public ☐ Clinic Common Triggers: ☐ Fatigue ☐ Hunger ☐ Transitions ☐ Embarrassment ☐ Sensory overload ☐ Emotional stress ☐ Unknown Early Warning Signs Noted: What Helped Most to Calm: ☐ Comfort words ☐ Holding ☐ Pacifier ☐ Regression time ☐ Quiet space ☐ Distraction ☐ Time 7. Stressors & Supports (Context matters) Top Stressors This Period: Most Effective Supports: ☐ Routine ☐ Caregiver presence ☐ Regression protocol ☐ Medical tools ☐ Play ☐ Sleep Lilly’s eyes flicked to the nanny cam interface. She turned on audio only. A faint sound came through—Paul moving upstairs. The squeak of a drawer. A hanger shifting. A soft thump as something was set down. Lilly opened her laptop and began to type. Not fast. Thoughtful. Like each answer was a choice she had to own. As she filled sections, she murmured pieces aloud—small fragments, half to herself, half to the empty room like it made the truth less sharp. “Date range… past seven days,” she said quietly, and the number alone felt absurd. Seven days. How could a life change this much in seven days? Her cursor hovered over the diapering section. “Average… six to seven,” she read softly, like she was saying it in a language she still hadn’t fully accepted. Then she clicked the box anyway. A pause. She glanced toward the nanny cam audio meter, watching it bounce faintly with Paul’s movement. Lilly kept typing. “Bedtime… seven-thirty,” she murmured when she reached sleep. “Wake time… six to six-thirty.” Her mouth tightened with a strange mix of grief and gratitude. Because it was working. Because it sounded like childhood. Because it gave him rest. Because it made her feel like she was holding together something that had threatened to break. At “Comfort tools,” she stopped again. Pacifier. Plushie. Bottle. Rocking. Her thumb hovered near the trackpad. She clicked them one by one, feeling each check mark land inside her body like a confession. Her breath caught when she reached the line about spoon-feeding. She didn’t say that part out loud. Not yet. That was for Wednesday. That was for the clinic. She finished enough of the form to feel steady. Then she sat back and listened. Upstairs, Paul’s footsteps shifted, nearer the camera. A breath. A pause. Lilly’s eyes softened without permission. He wasn’t ready to be changed yet. Not asking. Not calling her. Running his own show. Good. So Lilly stood. She moved quickly—like a mother trying to finish something important before the baby woke up needing a diaper change. And the strangest part was how natural that comparison felt now. She washed her face, smoothed moisturizer over her skin, fixed a few strands of hair. Efficient. Ritualistic. A reset for herself the same way Paul’s resets were being designed for him. As she moved, she felt it again—that quiet, unsettling truth she hadn’t fully admitted even to herself: Being needed didn’t just make her capable. It made her feel… wanted. Useful in the deepest way. And somewhere in that usefulness, something else had begun to grow—slow, private, complicated. Not just comfort with the role. A craving for it. For the moment Paul’s voice softened and he trusted her enough to say, Mommy. Lilly paused, hands braced on the counter, staring at her own reflection. Her eyes looked tired. But they looked alive. She turned off the water and reached back toward the desk, the nanny cam still on audio, when she heard the quietest, honest, softest and sweetest ask…. “Hey Lil---Mommy— I mean mom, umm I’m ready for a change now if that’s okay.” Lilly held her breath for just a second and replied “Sure, honey I’m on the way.”   The hallway by the annex always held its breath. Not because it was haunted—Bishop’s Gate didn’t do ghosts. It did quiet power. It did polished floors that reflected your shoes back at you like a reminder. It did doors that closed too slowly, like the building wanted time to study who came and went. Here, where the annex connected to the older wing, the light didn’t fully commit. Sun spilled in through high windows and then broke apart across trophy cases and framed programs from a decade of productions. Half the corridor glowed. Half stayed in shadow. The blue door—painted the kind of institutional navy that never chipped—sat at the seam between the two like a secret that liked being a secret. Someone waited in that shadow. A faint rectangle of light flickered once, then steadied—cell phone screen, turned low. The time read 10:35. A voice whispered, the words not quite male or female, not quite young or old. Just… sure. “It’s now or never.” The blue door opened heavy, the hinges giving a controlled complaint. A rectangle of brighter light spilled out onto the floor like a stage mark. Paul stepped through first. He paused with one hand still on the door, eyes scanning the hall the way someone scans a parking lot at night. No witnesses. No curious faces. No bodies leaning against lockers pretending not to look. Paul’s shoulders dropped a fraction, like he’d been holding them up on purpose and could finally let go. He turned his head back toward the thin sliver of space still open between the door and the frame. His voice stayed low, grateful in a way that sounded practiced—like he’d learned when to keep his gratitude quiet. “Hey—thanks so much, Whitney. I really appreciate it.” From inside, a faint reply—soft, easy, familiar, as if this wasn’t the first time. “Don’t mention it.” Paul nodded once, like he wanted to say more but knew better. Then he let the blue door swing closed behind him. It latched with a deep, final click that echoed down the corridor in a way that felt too loud for something that was supposed to be private. Paul turned the corner. And he passed the shadow without seeing it. Because the shadow wasn’t a shadow at all. It was a person.       Amber       She stepped forward as soon as Paul was gone, the cell phone dimming in her hand like a dying ember. She emerged into the better light and the hallway seemed to sharpen around her—every reflective surface suddenly aware it had something worth reflecting. She looked immaculate in the way Amber always looked immaculate, even when she wasn’t okay. A fitted cream cardigan over a slate-blue camisole, dark high-waisted jeans, clean white sneakers that had never seen mud on purpose. Her hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail with a ribbon that matched the camisole—small effort, deliberate. The kind of detail that said, I am in control of the picture. And the focal point of the picture—impossible to miss—hung at her throat: her engagement ring on a thin gold chain, resting at her collarbone like a promise and a weight at the same time. It caught the light when she moved, flashing small and bright like a signal no one asked it to send. But her face told the truth her outfit tried to cover. Amber had the expression of someone young who pulled an all-nighter. Not the dramatic “I’ve been working hard” kind. The hollow, wired kind. The kind where your eyes look too awake but your skin looks like it forgot how to rest. Her concealer was perfect. It didn’t matter. There was a tightness at the corners of her mouth that made her look older than eighteen and somehow smaller too. Because Amber hadn’t been up studying. She’d been up… replaying. Last night—meant to give her closure—had done the opposite. It had opened doors. It had split the floorboards under her feet. It had handed her knowledge she didn’t know how to hold without dropping it. She hadn’t admitted that to her mother in the kitchen. Not fully. Martina had been there in the soft overhead light, hands moving on autopilot—coffee, mugs, sugar, the simple rituals that made mornings feel normal even when they weren’t. Amber had taken her coffee black, which Martina noticed immediately, because Martina noticed everything that mattered. In Amber’s head, the memory flickered like a scene change—warm kitchen light, the smell of Cuban coffee, Martina’s voice threading Spanish through concern the way she always did when she didn’t want her fear to show. “Mi ángel,” Martina had said, smiling like she was joking, “te ves pálida. ¿Ya te están dando nervios de boda, casi un año antes?” (My angel, you look pale. Are you already coming down with pre-wedding jitters nearly a year out?) It had been meant to tease. It had been a mother’s way of offering comfort without cornering her daughter. Amber had forced down the bitter coffee anyway. Let it burn. Let it anchor her. She’d smiled back like she could still play the part. But she hadn’t dreamed about her wedding. She’d dreamed about Paul. And hell—calling it a dream felt dishonest. It had been a nightmare, and the worst part was that it didn’t feel like it came from nowhere. It felt like her brain was trying to translate what she’d learned into an image her body could panic at. It came to her in flashes. Her and Paul back in Paul’s living room—only it wasn’t the living room the way she remembered. It was too bright, too staged, like the lights were always on and someone had turned the saturation up just to make everything feel wrong. In the background she heard voices—Martina and Lilly—murmuring to someone at the door like they were giving instructions. The words didn’t land clearly, but the tone did: practical, calm, familiar. Amber looked at Paul. At first he was dressed normally. Jeans, shirt, that slightly exasperated Paul expression like he was about to make a joke to break tension. Then she blinked. And when she looked again—Paul wasn’t dressed at all, except he was, in the nightmare logic that made no sense and still hit hard. He had this goofy, helpless look on his face, and a bib—an actual baby’s bib—printed with bright blocks and letters that read: MAMA’S HUNGRY BOY. And under that— A diaper so exaggerated it looked comical, cartoonishly puffy, sagging in a way that made Amber’s stomach twist. Not because it was funny. Because it was Paul. Her best friend. The boy who used to stand on the stage like he owned light. Amber’s chest tightened. In the dream she couldn’t speak fast enough. She couldn’t make her mouth work. She tried to call his name, but the sound came out wrong, small and swallowed. She heard Martina’s voice from somewhere behind her: “Be a good girl for Harley.” Amber blinked again, and the floor changed. She and Paul weren’t standing in the living room anymore. They were standing inside a playpen, right there in the middle of the room—white plastic bars, toys scattered everywhere like evidence. Two bottles lay on the carpet—one blue, one pink. And Amber was holding one. Her hand tightened around it like she’d been assigned a prop she didn’t ask for. She looked down at herself. A baby pink T-shirt cut too short, too silly, like something from a costume rack. And beneath it—her own diaper. White. Puffy. Warm. Wet. A ridiculous nightmare mirror of Paul. What—what was she— Then she saw Harley. Harley looked like a cartoon caregiver in the nightmare—bigger eyes, bigger smile, too-bright energy that didn’t fit the room. Her voice was high and sing-song as she approached them, grinning with a sweetness that felt sharp around the edges. “Uh-oh,” Harley chirped, laced in baby talk, “does Harley have two wet babies who need a diapee-wipey change?” Amber’s body jolted awake in bed, heart racing like it had been chased. And the nightmare stopped—but not in a clean way. It stopped the way a door slams: abruptly, violently, leaving you standing on the wrong side of it.   Now, standing in the hallway at Bishop’s Gate, Amber swallowed hard as the memory tried to reattach itself to her. The worst part wasn’t even the nightmare. The worst part was the confirmation of everything Martina told her on the drive home. It was true. Paul didn’t just need diapers. His condition didn’t just inconvenience him. It reached inside him and rearranged the version of him that got to be in the world. It took his sharp edges—his independence, his rebellion—and turned them inward. It asked him to be cared for in ways Amber didn’t know how to look at without flinching. She didn’t know who Whitney was, but she knew what Whitney had just done for him. Whitney had been behind the blue door. Whitney had helped him. Because the daycare was attached. Because the annex was where kids got support. Because it wasn’t a coincidence that Paul had checked the hall like that before stepping out. Amber’s mouth tightened. “Ew. Gross,” she said out loud before she could stop herself. The words bounced quietly off the lockers and died. They sounded childish in the hallway. Cruel. Not because Amber meant Paul was gross. Not because she meant to be mean. Because her brain was panicking and it reached for the easiest label it could slap on something it couldn’t process. Flashes—bottles, bibs, baby food—hit her again, uninvited. Even though Paul wasn’t a baby. Even though she knew that. Even though she hated that her mind kept trying to collapse him into that image like it would make the fear easier to manage. It didn’t. It hurt her in more ways than one. Because there was a grief inside this that Amber didn’t know how to name. Not romantic grief. Not “I lost him to someone else” grief. Something stranger. Something deeper. She missed the Paul who used to glare at authority. The Paul who argued with teachers on principle. The Paul who could take a punch from life and still swing back. And now—now there were babysitters and routines and a blue door and a girl named Whitney who knew things Amber hadn’t been allowed to know until last night forced it open. It wasn’t just worry. It was anger too. Anger at the universe for taking pieces of him. Anger at how quietly it happened. Anger at herself for not being there when it started. Anger at the distance—the seven years they’d lost when Bryan and Paul moved away when Paul was eight and didn’t return until he was fifteen. Seven years that had changed them. Changed everything. The play had been the bridge. Martina had been the bridge. Amber had been able to pretend they were still the same kids as long as they were on stage under the same lights. But this— This was offstage. This was private. This was real. Amber’s fingers rose to her necklace without thinking. The ring was cool against her skin. Solid. A symbol of a future everyone congratulated her for. Marcus. A life that was moving forward. And Paul—Paul’s body was pulling him backward. Amber’s throat tightened as the clock in her mind ticked toward the next problem she couldn’t avoid. 11:00 a.m. rehearsals. In twenty-five minutes she’d have to stand across from him again, close enough to see his eyes change when he lied. Close enough to hear his voice try to be normal. Close enough to feel the new knowledge between them like a third person in every scene. What kind of chemistry would they have now? Would she look at him and see Paul— Or would her brain betray her and flash the nightmare again? Amber pressed her palm flat against a locker door, grounding herself in the cold metal. Get it together. Not because she was embarrassed. Because she was scared. Because she loved him—yes, loved him—in the way you love someone who has been stitched into your life so long you don’t know where you end and they begin. Amber drew a slow breath through her nose. She tasted coffee at the back of her throat. She tasted last night’s fear. She stared at the blue door one more time. Then she straightened. Smoothed her cardigan. Lifted her chin like she was stepping onto a stage. Because that was what Amber did when she didn’t know what else to do.   Chapter Ninety-Seven: The Bishop’s Gate theatre wasn’t a room so much as a small kingdom. Two levels of seating curved around the stage like a bowl—dark wood railings, velvet-lined aisles, polished armrests that still smelled faintly of lemon oil from whatever janitor believed cleanliness was reverence. The stage itself was immaculate in a way that almost felt unfair for a school: clean black floor, fresh spike tape marks, lighting grid humming quietly overhead like a living thing. Up in the catwalks, crew kids moved like silhouettes—headsets, clipboards, practiced gestures. Backstage ran deep: costume racks on rolling rails, a paint-splattered set shop with half-built flats leaning like sleeping giants, a prop table that looked like a museum of other people’s lives—briefcases, toy guns with orange tips, battered hymnals, a fake pie that had survived three productions and refused to die. It smelled like sawdust and hairspray. Like hot dust from stage lights warming up. Like coffee someone shouldn’t be drinking this early but was anyway. And it sounded like rehearsal. Chaos with purpose. A costume kid with a measuring tape looped around her neck darted across the wings, calling out, “Who’s missing their hat? Jem—your hat is here!” A stage manager—seventeen and already exhausted—sat at the front row with a binder the size of a brick, snapping, “Quiet in the house in two minutes!” Somewhere near the orchestra pit, a boy practiced trumpet notes he didn’t need for this show and got yelled at anyway. A makeup mirror glowed in the corner like a tiny sun, surrounded by girls and boys smudging powder under their eyes, transforming teenage faces into older bones. Amber paused just inside the back entrance, letting the noise wash over her like a wave she didn’t have to fight. It should’ve felt normal. It was normal—this. This theatre. This controlled frenzy. This place where the world made sense because everyone had a role and a mark and a cue. But Amber’s body didn’t know the difference between normal and after. She stepped into the wings, the engagement ring at her throat catching a streak of light as she moved. Her eyes tried to do the smart thing—avoid, scan elsewhere, find something safe to focus on. The prop table. The fly system. A half-painted jail cell flat. Her eyes did the opposite. They landed on Paul immediately. He was stage left, half turned toward a rack of costumes, laughing at something Leo said. Not a big laugh. Not a performance laugh. A real, quick burst, like his body remembered how. He looked like himself. Not the backyard version with tears on his face. Not the hallway version checking corners for witnesses. Here—under stage light spill and the familiar hum of theatre—he was Paul the way Amber’s brain wanted him to be. Tall. Composed. For a second Amber’s chest loosened. Then it tightened again. Because the version of him that looked healed… was carrying what she knew now. And that knowledge didn’t sit on him like a bruise. It sat on her like a bruise. Paul glanced up—like he felt her before he saw her. Their eyes met. No shame. Not even apology. Just sincerity. Sanctuary, almost. Like the truth they’d shared last night had built a small bridge between them and he was standing on it, waiting to see if she’d cross. Amber lifted her hand and waved, small. Her mouth formed a silent, “Hi.” Paul mirrored it, equally small, equally careful. And then Declan’s voice boomed from the audience, cutting through everything like a director’s knife. “Right then—enough bletherin’. Cast, to yer places. Let’s get movin’” Declan didn’t need a microphone. He never had. A veteran of theatre in a way that made him seem older than the rest of them even when he was smiling. Scottish accent thick when he was excited, sharper when he was irritated. No nonsense. Intimidating sometimes, yes—but never cruel. He treated them like artists, not kids, and somehow that made everyone either rise or collapse. Declan’s gaze swept the stage, the aisles, the wings. He clapped once. “We’ll pick it up mid-beat. Atticus comes in knackered. Jem’s tryin’ to be brave about it. Let the silence do the work. Don’t you dare fill it. Aye? …Go.” Paul moved before he was even fully called. A shift in his body—actor mode, director mode, both. He passed Amber by a few feet, close enough that she smelled his soap—clean, citrus, something adult mixed with the baby powder underneath with the crinkle she could have sworn she heard. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t ask anything. But his eyes flicked to her face in passing, quick as a breath. You good? Amber nodded without meaning to. Paul was already gone. Leo jogged out behind him, lanky and earnest, carrying the script like a lifeline even though everyone knew the lines by now. Leo still looked like a freshman if you watched him too hard—the way his energy bounced, the way he held his shoulders like he was trying to look older. But today there was something steadier in him too. Like he’d been practicing offstage, like he’d listened when someone told him the difference between acting and being. Declan settled into the front row, legs stretched, arms crossed. “We’re starting mid-beat,” he called. “Atticus comes in tired. Jem tries to be brave. The silence matters. Don’t fill it. Ready?” The stage quieted the way only a theatre can quiet—like the whole building leaned in. Leo took his position as Atticus near the doorway mark. Paul as Jem was already seated on the porch steps, elbows on knees, the posture of a boy trying to hold something in without spilling it. Their set—a half-built porch with a railing and a swing—looked shockingly real under the right light, even if the paint was still drying in spots. Leo entered with measured weight. Not exaggerated, not melodramatic. He moved like someone who’d been carrying other people’s opinions all day. He set down an invisible briefcase with care, the way adults do when they’re trying not to show they’re tired. He looked at Paul—at Jem—and you could see him decide to soften. “You’re still up,” Leo said, voice low. Paul didn’t answer right away. He stared out toward the imaginary street, the audience empty but feeling full anyway. Then, quiet, almost casual in a way that made it hit harder— “Couldn’t sleep.” Leo’s shoulders dipped. “Something on your mind?” Paul let the silence sit. Let it do its job. Then he said, “Everyone keeps talking like we did something wrong.” His line wasn’t straight from the book. It didn’t need to be. It carried the same spine: a kid trying to understand the adult world and realizing it doesn’t make sense. Leo took a breath like he’d been told to and chose to keep it simple. “We didn’t do wrong,” Leo said. “We tried to do right.” Paul’s eyes flicked up. Not angry. Not accusing. Just… searching. “And that matters?” Paul asked. Leo stepped closer, not crowding, just enough to take the space the scene required. He sat on the porch swing, letting it move a fraction, a soft creak of chain. “It matters,” Leo said. “Even when people don’t clap for it.” In the wings, someone on crew actually stopped moving. Amber saw it. A kid with a staple gun paused mid-step like the line grabbed him by the collar. Paul shifted, and in his body you could see a boy deciding whether to trust his father. It was subtle. It was everything. “But you’re tired,” Paul said. “You’re always… tired.” Leo’s face did something honest—like the truth crossed it before he could edit it. “Yes,” he admitted. “I am.” Paul watched him. And then—without pushing, without blaming—Paul delivered the line that made Declan’s head tilt with interest. “Are you tired because you’re doing this… or because you’re doing it alone?” It wasn’t perfect literature. It didn’t need to be. It was perfect Jem. It was a boy seeing too much and saying it anyway. Leo’s throat bobbed. He didn’t rush the answer. “I’m not alone,” Leo said, voice roughened just slightly. “I have you. I have Scout. I have… a house that still has light in it.” Paul’s eyes softened, and Amber felt it like a tug. Because Paul could do that—turn softness into power. He could make tenderness feel like a choice, not a weakness. Paul nodded once, small. “Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll try to sleep.” Leo smiled—not big. Not showy. Just relief. He reached out and rested a hand on Paul’s shoulder, the kind of touch a father gives a son when words run out. Paul didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean away. He let it land. Declan’s voice cut in immediately, satisfied. “Hold—hold it there. Aye. That’s it. That’s the moment. Don’t rush past it.” He stood up, pointing at Leo, then at Paul. “Atticus—Leo—that’s the work right there. Ye stopped tryin’ to be older than ye are and let the scene carry ye. That’s honest. That’s bloody lovely.” Leo flushed, half shocked, half proud. Declan turned to Paul. “And Jem—Mr. Goldhawk—aye, I see ye. Clear as day.” Paul blinked like he didn’t know where to put the compliment. Declan continued, voice carrying. “Ye’re no’ just actin’. Ye’re listenin’. Ye’re givin’ him space with yer eyes, yer breath, yer stillness. Your helping to bring the best out of him—because ye let him be..” A ripple moved through the cast in the wings—people noticing. People recalibrating their understanding of Paul. Not as the kid who’d had a rough week. Not as the boy with the blue door. As the actor with command. Declan lifted his voice just a touch more, letting the whole room hear it. “And for the rest of ye—listen close. If ye want to stop shoutin’ yer way through scenes like volume’s a substitute for truth, then ye put in the time. And if Mr. Goldhawk offers ye notes off the clock, ye say thank you—and ye take them.” A few kids snickered in the way teenagers do when praised scares them. Declan shot them a look that made the snickers die. Paul’s tracker—tucked under his clothes like a private truth—stayed calm. Amber couldn’t see it, but she could see his breath. Even. Steady. Green. He gave Declan a small nod. He didn’t smile big. But something in him lifted. And Amber—watching—felt something complicated shift. Relief, yes. And also grief, because watching him be this good made her want to protect him more. And protecting him now had new rules she didn’t understand yet. Declan clapped again. “Right. Next scene. Scout, Jem, Dill—on.” Amber’s cue. Her feet moved before her brain could argue. She took her place center stage with Paul and Dill—played by a junior named Eli, skinny as a broomstick with freckles and restless energy. Eli bounced on his toes like he was trying to shake the nerves out. Amber settled into Scout’s posture automatically, the way she always did: chin up, shoulders forward, eyes quick. It usually felt like slipping into a favorite hoodie. Today it felt like stepping into water that might be too cold. Paul moved into Jem beside her, close enough that Amber’s body registered his presence the way it always had—familiar, safe, complicated. He whispered without moving his mouth, professional. “You good?” Amber nodded too fast. “Yep.” She wasn’t. They started the scene. It was light, playful on paper—kids talking about rumors, bravery, fear disguised as curiosity. Eli delivered his lines with eager charm, trying hard to keep pace. Amber should’ve been fine. But every time she turned toward Paul, her brain hesitated. It wasn’t that she saw him as a baby. Not really. Not consciously. It was worse: her mind kept flickering through images she didn’t want—blue door, Whitney, the word “support,” Harley’s sing-song voice, Martina’s certainty. The knowledge sat behind Paul’s face like a second script Amber couldn’t stop reading. Her timing slipped. A beat late. Then a beat early. She stepped half an inch off her mark and caught herself like she’d almost tripped. Declan’s voice came sharp from the audience. “Scout—ye’re steppin’ on the thought. Let it breathe. Trust it..” “Sorry,” Amber said quickly, forcing a laugh like it was no big deal. They reset. Amber tried again. She hit the line, but her eyes wouldn’t land where they needed to. Not fully. She kept skimming around Paul like eye contact might ignite something she couldn’t control. Paul noticed. Of course he did. Paul noticed everything. He leaned in during Eli’s line, whispering with real concern now, not just stage professionalism. “Amber. Hey. Talk to me. What’s going on?” His hand lifted and brushed her fingers—light, asking, not claiming. Amber’s body reacted like the touch was too loud. She pulled her hand back before she could choose not to. Not dramatic. Not cruel. Just instinct—space, breath, control. Paul’s face flickered. A micro-second of hurt he tried to swallow. He covered it fast, back into Jem, back into the scene. Declan called, “Hold.” The cast froze. The crew went silent. Declan’s eyes narrowed. “This is three bairns in a moment, not two and a ghost standin’ between them. If ye’re carryin’ somethin’, ye either leave it at the door—or ye face it here. We don’t bleed tension into the work ‘cause we’re scared to look at it. Amber’s cheeks burned. She nodded. “Got it.” Declan sighed—softer now. “Take five. Water. Reset.” The room exhaled. Amber stepped off stage right, moving toward the prop table like she needed an anchor. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and when she saw the name on the screen—Marcus—a smile hit her face automatically, bright as a light cue. Centered. Safe. “Hey,” she answered, voice softening into something warmer. Real. “Hi.” Paul was a few feet away, talking to Leo about a note Declan gave. He glanced at Amber and saw the smile. Saw her settle. And something in him shifted—quietly. Rehearsal wound down in its usual messy way: stage manager calling out reminders, wardrobe collecting pieces, crew dragging flats, someone shouting, “Who took my tape?” Declan released them with a gruff, “Good work. Don’t waste it.” Amber stayed on the phone, pacing just inside the wing. Marcus’s voice—low through the speaker—felt like a rope pulling her back to the life she understood. Paul approached anyway, cautious, like he didn’t want to interrupt but needed to ask. “Hey,” he said, waiting until Amber covered the mic. “Late lunch? I’m starving. There’s that place by the arts center—” Amber’s brain had two tracks at once: Marcus speaking, Paul asking. Her nervous system chose speed over grace. She lifted a hand, half apologetic, half hurried. “Sorry, little guy—need to take this. Marcus and I have plans.” The words came out wrong. Not because Amber meant to be mean. She said “little guy” the way she’d said it a hundred times when they were kids—affectionate, teasing, familiar. But she said it now, with everything she knew now, and it landed in the air like a dropped glass. Paul’s face didn’t crumble. He didn’t flinch dramatically. He just… went still for half a beat. Amber, still on the phone, didn’t see the full impact. She was already sliding back into Marcus’s voice, already performing normal. Paul stepped back, a small nod. “Oh—yeah. Cool. No worries.” His tracker—quiet against his body—spiked yellow like a warning light. He felt it before he fully understood it. A creeping heat at his ribs. The beginnings of that old betrayal feeling: not now, not here. He swallowed hard, forcing his posture to stay neutral. Leo and a couple of other cast members approached, energized from the good run. “Goldhawk!” Leo called, grinning. “We’re hitting lunch—come with. You too, Eli. We’re celebrating Declan not murdering us today.” A few kids laughed. Old Paul might’ve said yes. Might’ve leaned into the social moment, ridden the compliment high. This Paul hesitated. His body felt… precarious. Mostly fine. Mostly in control. But the yellow on his tracker and the way his stomach tightened told him he was closer to the edge than he wanted anyone to see. He forced a smile. “I can’t. I’ve—uh. Got something after.” Leo nodded, not offended. “Next time.” Paul gave a quick wave and moved stage left, exiting the space like he was leaving a party before anyone could notice he wasn’t having fun. Amber ended the call a minute later and turned back, looking for him like guilt had finally caught up. Paul was already gone. She spotted Leo and hurried over, voice tight. “Hey—did you see where Paul went?” Leo shrugged, easy. “Paul? He’s always on the move.” Amber’s chest squeezed. She pressed her fingers against her necklace, the ring cold and solid, and felt the shame creep up her throat. “I said something dumb,” she admitted, voice low. “I didn’t mean—” Leo tilted his head, not prying, just listening. “He’ll be fine,” he said, but his tone didn’t fully convince her. “He’s… Paul.” Amber nodded like that helped. It didn’t. She pulled out her phone and typed fast, thumbs shaking just slightly. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m just… overwhelmed. Please talk to me. She stared at the message before sending it like it might explode. Then she hit send. And somewhere across campus, walking faster than he meant to, Paul was already sending his own text—shorter, simpler, more urgent. Hey Harley, Mom said you’d pick up if I messaged you. Rehearsals are over, no need for me to hangout any further. Could you please pick me up ASAP. The response came almost immediately, bright on his screen like a chirp in the dark. ABSOUTLEY!! 💕💕 on my wayyyy!!! Paul’s throat tightened. Because the world was shifting around him again—roles reversing, language changing, affection landing differently than it used to. Amber—his oldest friend—had just called him “little guy” with a distance in her eyes she didn’t know she was wearing. And because his body, always listening, always recording, had turned yellow at the exact moment he needed it to stay green. Paul stood just outside the main entrance, the heavy stone arch casting long afternoon shadows across the drive. It was 1:20 p.m.—late Tuesday, late November—when the school felt hollowed out, most students locked in classrooms while the building itself seemed to breathe between bells. A few kids lingered near the gates, seniors skipping last period, a pair of freshmen hunched over a phone, laughter drifting without direction. Paul didn’t recognize any of them, which helped. A little. Then the car pulled in. A modest sedan—second hand, clean, unmistakably Harley. The color was cheerful without being loud, softened by playful decals along the rear window. Music bubbled out through the open driver’s-side window, bright and bratty, pulsing with the kind of confidence that felt ironic pressed up against Paul’s chest.   He knew that song. His ears burned. He started toward the curb before he could overthink it, hoping no one was really paying attention. That was when the driver’s door swung open. Harley stepped out like she’d been waiting for this moment. Baby-blue booty shorts, frilly ankle socks peeking over baby-pink tennis shoes, long legs catching the afternoon light without apology. Over it all, zipped halfway up, was a Bluey hoodie—the cartoon character grinning wide across her chest, the hood’s little ears bouncing slightly as she moved. A soft baby-pink T-shirt showed underneath her whole outfit walking the line between playful and inappropriate-for-a-school-pickup in a way only Harley could manage without flinching. “Paaauuul!” she sang, already moving toward him. Before he could brace himself, she wrapped him in a quick, warm hug—arms snug around his shoulders, cheek pressing briefly against his temple. Not lingering. Not subtle either. “There’s my guy,” she cooed, pulling back just enough to look at his face. “How was your day, hm?” Paul flushed, aware of the eyes drifting their way. “It was… fine,” he said, keeping his voice steady. Harley didn’t seem to notice the stares—or if she did, she didn’t care. She slipped his backpack off his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world and popped open the passenger door with a flourish. “Hop in.” As Paul climbed into the seat, she leaned in closer, her voice dropping just enough to be private, still sing-song but quieter now. “Dry, sweetheart? Or do we need to make a pit stop soon?” Paul’s pulse jumped. He shook his head quickly. “I’m good,” he said, then added, softer, “Thanks for asking.” Harley murmured, pleased. She pecked his cheek—quick, affectionate—then buckled him in herself before closing the door. She tossed his backpack into the back seat, waved cheerfully at a couple of students watching nearby— “Have a good rest of your daaay!”— and climbed back into the driver’s seat. The car pulled away from the curb. Paul watched the gates slide past, then frowned slightly. They weren’t heading home, he said that part out loud. Harley giggled, eyes flicking to him in the rearview mirror. “You noticed,” she said lightly. “Such a smart boy.” Paul turned, heart thudding. That’s when he saw it. Hope sparked in his chest, bright and immediate. Next to his backpack sat his basketball—familiar, comforting—and Right alongside it came something sharper anxiety humming under his skin, as right beside it, neatly tucked but unmistakable, was his diaper bag. The music kept playing, sugary and defiant, as the school disappeared behind them and a “playdate” beckoned.