Rainbow Diapers

Day 13, twice  Day 14, twice

Eesh, poor girl! She's in worse shape than anyone realized! I hope she gets the medical attention she needs!  I still think she's actually going to need diapers by the end of all this.

Chapter One Hundred & Eight: Lilly’s footsteps faded up the stairs, her presence lifting from the kitchen like a breath finally released after being held too long. Paul and Harley were left alone at the table. Paul ate more slowly now. Not because he wasn’t hungry—his stomach still pulled, insistent—but because every movement felt observed by his own body. The earlier spill replayed in fragments: the heat in his face, the sound of food hitting fabric, the sudden silence afterward. Proof of how close everything lived to the edge now. One wrong thought. One wrong name. Amber. He kept his eyes on the plate. Harley noticed everything. She didn’t rush him. Didn’t fill the quiet with chatter or instructions. She let the silence stretch, let him chew and swallow at his own uneven pace. But her gaze kept drifting—again and again—to the refrigerator. The finger painting.   It hung there imperfectly: uneven edges, bold colors, confidence without polish. The lion. The jaguar that had changed its mind halfway through becoming itself. They weren’t just pictures. They were markers. The moment where Paul had softened, opened, let go. Evidence. Something inside her settled.   The way he’d reacted when she mentioned Amber. How his shoulders had folded inward, how his hands had gone uncertain. That wasn’t embarrassment alone. That was grief. That was yearning. That was the ache of wanting comfort without knowing how to ask for it.   The same ache she’d seen during painting. Her smile came slowly. Not playful. Not warm. Intentional. She turned back to him, voice slipping seamlessly into that gentle, sing-song cadence—soft, coaxing, tuned precisely to pull his attention.   “Heyyy,” she murmured.   Paul looked up just as she slid his plate toward herself.   Confusion sparked first. Then alarm.   “I—I’m not finished—”   But Harley wasn’t clearing the table.   She picked up his last slice of pizza, folded it lightly between her fingers, careful, practiced. The crust bent just enough to hold everything together. She lifted it to his eye level, close enough that he could smell the grease and warmth.   “Go on, honey,” she coaxed, eyes bright. “Take a nice biiig bite of your peee-zaaa.”   The word landed softened. Rounded. Smaller than it needed to be.   Paul’s chest tightened.   Every instinct screamed don’t. Don’t let this happen. Don’t give up something so small and basic as feeding himself. But the day had worn him thin. Shame pressed heavier than pride. And underneath it all was hunger—not just for food, but for focus, for care, for the uncomplicated attention she was offering.   His agency faltered. He leaned forward. The bite was warm. Salty. Comforting.   Grounding in a way that made his stomach unclench and his thoughts go quiet.   Harley’s heart swelled.   Not just with affection—but with triumph. With belonging. She felt closer now—not only to Paul, but to the house itself. The rhythms. The permissions. She imagined herself fitting here without friction. Needed. Trusted. Permanent. He would be her’s.   Upstairs, on the staircase landing, Lilly’s phone vibrated. The hallway light washed across her face as she unlocked the screen. Bryan’s name. Her breath caught before she could stop it. She read. Lilly pressed the phone to her chest.   Warmth bloomed—unexpected, aching. Validation. Partnership. The feeling that they were finally building something together instead of just surviving around each other. She pictured it clearly: paint on fingers, laughter, a moment reclaimed from everything they’d lost, including her.   Lilly’s throat tightened. But beneath the warmth was something sharper.   Momentum.   This was moving fast now. Faster than she’d planned. And Paul—fragile, brilliant, conflicted Paul—was already strapped into the engine, whether he was ready or not.   She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, and continued up the stairs—already thinking about tonight’s call, tomorrow’s shoot, and how carefully everything would need to be managed.     Harley sat on the edge of Paul’s bed, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture patient and expectant. The bedside clock glowed 6:45 p.m. in soft blue digits.   From the bathroom came the sound of the toilet flushing. She felt it immediately—an odd mixture of pride and something sharper beneath it. Pride that Paul had managed on his own. It was a slight disappointment that she wouldn’t be cleaning a mushy tushy, this time.  She let her thoughts drift while she waited.   Dinner replayed in her mind—the way Paul’s hands had trembled, the way the pizza had slipped, the blue terry cloth bib ruined in a single careless second.   Such a messy wittle boy, Harley thought. She imagined how much simpler it would have been if things had been contained properly. If there had been a chair made for moments like that. One place. One solution. Her thoughts returned, unbidden, to the unfinished project tucked away elsewhere. The chair. The straps. Pauly, secured and safe. Legs dangling just above the floor. Everything contained. Everything where it belonged. The bibby spotless. The tray broad and washable, paint and crumbs meant to land there, not on him, not on the room, not on anyone else’s nerves.   The high chair would’ve made it simple.   She imagined feeding him there. Helping him paint there. Splattering color freely, because the surface was meant for it—Harley felt her heart race, her pupils grew, and her breath drew in and out quicker. She was getting excited, especially down there.   Harley had to compose herself, but couldn’t help but lick her lips wildly at the image in her mind. Harley inhaled slowly, grounding herself. This wasn’t the time.   The bathroom door opened.   Paul stepped out, hair still damp and darkened from his shower, towel wrapped around his waist. Steam followed him into the room. He looked tired, the kind of tired that settled in the bones rather than the muscles.   Harley smiled warmly. “Hey there,” she said, gentle, careful. “All clean?”   Paul nodded. His voice came out small. “Yeah.”   She noticed immediately—no mess to address, no emergency—but she also noticed the subtle heaviness in his posture. The drinks from earlier had done their work. His body needed tending, even if the moment hadn’t announced itself loudly.   Rash cream would be important tonight.   Before moving, Harley tilted her head slightly, keeping her voice calm and inviting. “Hey, Paul… do you and your mom and dad have any kind of bedtime routine? Something you usually do to get comfy before sleep?”   Paul hesitated. His little side reacted before the rest of him could intervene.   “Sleepsack,” he blurted.   The word hung there.   Harley’s eyebrows lifted just a touch. “Oh?” she said softly. “You wear a sleepsack to bed?”   Paul’s face warmed immediately. His older voice tried to recover ground. “Uh—yeah. I mean. Sometimes. Only on some nights.” He swallowed. “Tonight might be one of those nights. If… if that’s okay.”   The relief on Harley’s face was immediate—and telling. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him in a quick, firm hug, more enclosing than comforting.   “Of course it’s okay,” she whispered. “We’ll make you all cozywozzy in your sleepy sacky.”   Paul stiffened briefly at the word choice, at another nickname nudging its way into the air. His adult mind bristled. But beneath it, his smaller side hummed quietly, soothed by the familiarity, already looping the phrase back at him like a tune he didn’t want stuck in his head.   Sleepy sack. Sleepy sack.   Harley moved toward the closet before he could overthink it. She found the garment easily—larger than anything she’d seen before, zippers placed with intention, soft lining visible at the seams. She paused longer than necessary, absorbing the design. Order. Structure. A solution made of fabric.   She turned back to Paul. “How does mommy Lilly and Daddy get you into it?”   Paul blushed & shrugged at the same time. “After a change. Plastic pants. I lay on the bed and they help me from there.”   Something settled into place for Harley. She had a flash of inspiration. She wanted to try it; she needed to do it. She was even hungrier for comfort than when she was feeding him the pizza. An idea—carefully arranged, perfectly reasonable in her own mind.   “Okay,” she said easily. “Let’s do that.”   She asked Paul to help move the changing table closer to the bed first. He complied, confused but trusting. When it was positioned just right, close enough to the bed where she could stand in the middle of both the table and the edge of the bed with a simple turn, Harley guided him gently onto it, buckling the safety strap with practiced ease.   “Lay still for me,” she said softly.   Her voice shifted into that familiar cadence—slow, soothing, directive. Paul stopped focusing on the steps almost immediately. His body responded on instinct alone: the cold of the wipe, the relief of cream, the soft sound of powder settling. He stared at the ceiling, letting the process pass over him.   The diaper this time was one of the Critter Caboose ones. Thicker. Softer. More present. Paul noticed the difference even if he didn’t comment on it. His plastic pants followed, navy and gold stars catching the light. When Harley loosened the strap, she held up a hand. “Stay just like that, okay?”   Paul obeyed.   She unzipped the sleepsack, guiding him to roll slightly as she worked the fabric beneath him. Once his feet were settled, she helped him sit, threading his arms through carefully, ensuring the fit was snug without being tight. The zippers closed with soft finality.   Paul looked down at himself. Encased.   “Um,” he said quietly. “How do I… get into bed?”   Harley didn’t answer right away. Like she was both ignoring him and smoothing him at the same time—looked down. She didn’t speak at first. She just looked.   It was a look Paul had never seen before, not from her, not from anyone. An intensity that felt like standing too close to a thousand suns at once—hot, blinding, impossible to look away from. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t even excitement in any way he recognized.   It was something closer to reverence.   Almost like being adorned.   Not fussed over. Not hovered around. But adorned—as if he were something precious being arranged exactly where it belonged, something meant to be seen like this, held like this. The sensation crawled through him in a way he couldn’t name. His mind searched for language and came up empty. But his body—his bones—recognized it instantly. They had felt this before. Long before memory existed. Before words. Before choice.   Harley stayed there for several long moments, simply looking down at him, as though time had slowed around the two of them. She hummed something soft and indistinct, a melody without edges, barely there. Her fingers brushed back his hair in slow, careful strokes, smoothing, reassuring.   “There you are,” she murmured, voice warm and low. “What a wittle cutie pie,” she added gently. “All snuggled up.”   The words settled over him like a blanket—too heavy to push away, too familiar to resist. As she slipped the pacifier into his mouth before he could protest. His jaw resisted for half a second—then accepted it. Relief followed. The pressure grounded him. She clipped it neatly to the sleepsack.   Then, without warning, Harley wedged her arms beneath his knees and back and lifted. Paul gasped softly as his weight shifted, instinctively trying to clutch at her shoulders but he couldn’t his arms were in the sleep sack. She held him close—not crushing, but firm. Enclosing. His face brushed hers as she breathed him in, steady and deliberate.   Harley held him, like an actual infant in this pose, there eyes now acting as a mirror for the other for a good minuite, she was only to happy to lean in and wiggle her nose up against his, this was the kind on intamcy fantized about but never realized with anybody of the opposite sex. Paul felt his own body twitch, the same kind of twitch when Savannah bathed and held him. But as quickly as it began, it ended as Harley turned and lowered him into bed just as carefully.   Once he was settled, she smoothed the blanket over him, adjusted the pillow, and stepped back.   “There,” she whispered. “All safe.”   Paul stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, unsure whether he felt comforted or trapped—or both.   Harley leaned down closer and, gracefully but with a firm intent behind her, sealed her lips up against Paul’s forehead and held them there before realizing the good night kiss, turned off the light, and closed the door softly behind her.     7:05 p.m. sat on Paul’s bedside clock like a verdict. The red digits glowed beside the soft pile of things on his nightstand—his book left face-down where he’d abandoned it, the edge of a coaster ringed with condensation, the quiet proof of a day that had asked too much and never once apologized. Paul lay there anyway, trapped in the safety of it, listening to the house settle.   A minute passed. Another.   7:05 turned to 7:06 with a tiny electronic click that felt louder than it should’ve.   And then—   Time did what it always did. It slipped its hand into the story and yanked. The red digits bled into another screen entirely.   A different glow. Sharper. Colder. Brighter.   12:45 a.m.   Lilly’s iPhone lit up the dark of the master bedroom like a small moon. The rest of the room was all shadows and muted luxury—crisp sheets, a wide headboard, the low hum of air conditioning, and that soft hotel-smell that always clung to clean linens no matter how much life happened inside them.   From the master bathroom, the faucet finally stopped. The silence after it had weight.   Lilly stepped out with her phone in hand, her hair damp at the ends, her face freshly washed—bare, tired, and somehow more honest without makeup. She wore a loose sleep shirt that hung off one shoulder, the kind of thing she’d once considered unflattering and now wore like a flag: I’m home. I’m trying. On the other end of the call, Bryan’s voice filled the room—warm, textured, smiling even when he wasn’t.   “Hey,” he said, and even that one word carried the sense of a man who’d been running on set adrenaline for twelve hours and still made time sound like it belonged to her.   Lilly climbed onto the bed and leaned back against the pillows. The screen reflected in her eyes.   “Hey yourself,” she murmured. “You sound… cooked.”   Bryan let out a breath that turned into a laugh. “Cooked. Fried. Possibly sautéed.”   She smiled, the kind that loosened her shoulders.   “Okay,” Lilly said. “Start from the top. Good day or bad day?”   Bryan groaned theatrically. “Both. It was one of those days where you think you’re about to have a good day—like you can smell it—and then the universe goes, absolutely not.”   Lilly’s smile widened. “Mmhmm. Go on.”   He shifted on his end—Lilly could hear the faint creak of a chair, the rustle of fabric, the particular sound of someone finally sitting down after pretending they weren’t exhausted.   “We had a sunrise call time,” Bryan began. “Which should be illegal. Like, I’m pretty sure the Geneva Convention covers this.”   “Bryan—”   “I’m serious, Lil. The sun was barely up. The crew looked like zombies. Even the craft table looked depressed. The bagels were… sad.”   Lilly laughed quietly, her free hand covering her mouth like she didn’t want to wake the house even though the house had been waking her all year.   “And then,” Bryan continued, “we get into it. And it’s actually—” he paused, as if even remembering it lit him up. “It’s actually good. The choreography clicks. The camera moves like it’s supposed to. The wind machine behaves for once.”   Lilly could hear the grin now.   “And?” she prompted, already knowing there was an and.   “And then we’re supposed to do this sequence with Vin—” Bryan’s voice did something between a snort and a sigh. “And he sends the stunt double.”   Lilly’s eyebrows rose. “He sent the stunt double?”   “He sent the stunt double like he was sending a messenger pigeon,” Bryan said. “Like, ‘Tell them I was here in spirit.’”   Lilly’s laugh grew sharper. “Stop.”   “I’m not even mad,” Bryan added quickly, the way he always did when he was trying to be fair. “He’s busy. He’s got a million things. But the energy on set shifts, you know? It’s like someone let the air out of a tire.”   “And Tom?” Lilly asked, already smiling.   Bryan’s tone changed instantly—half disbelief, half admiration. “Tom showed up early.”   “Of course he did.”   “Early,” Bryan emphasized. “And he was ready. Fully dialed in. Like he doesn’t age. Like he runs on jet fuel and spite.” Lilly laughed again, this time letting it out.   “And he looks at the stunt double,” Bryan continued, “and he’s polite—he’s Tom, right? But you can see it. You can see him thinking, Oh. We’re doing this version today.”   Lilly curled her knees up, sinking deeper into the bed. She could picture Bryan’s face when he got excited about work—animated, hands moving, a boyishness that survived everything else.   “So what happened?” she asked. “Tell me the juicy part.”   Bryan lowered his voice like he was about to confess a crime. “Okay. We can’t talk about the climax. But—”   “Bryan.”   “—but I’m telling you, it’s insane,” he said, and now he was fully in it. “We’re on top of this set piece built to look like a nuclear plant tower. Like, the kind of height where your brain starts negotiating with God.”   Lilly’s eyes widened. “You were… on top of it?”   “Yep. Harnessed. Rigged. Everything safe. But still—your body doesn’t care about safety when it sees that much open air.”   She made a sound somewhere between worry and fascination.   “And it’s supposed to be this… duel,” Bryan said, and she could hear him smiling like it was Christmas. “Two men at the top. Wind. Sirens. The whole world below them. And they’re set to go at it with actual swords.”   Lilly blinked. “Actual swords.”   “Choreographed,” he corrected quickly. “Controlled. But still. Tom is up there—fully committed—like he’s about to save the world with a blade and a smile. And then the idea was that Vin would be up there too, right? That energy. That power.”   “But it’s not Vin,” Lilly guessed.   Bryan’s laugh came out darker. “No. It’s the stunt double trying his best while Tom Cruise is basically… dueling the concept of disappointment.”   Lilly snorted. “Bryan.”   “I’m telling you,” he said. “The tension was insane. The camera loved it. Everybody was quiet. Even the crew was quiet.   It felt like the whole set was holding its breath.”   “And you?” Lilly asked softly. “What were you doing?”   Bryan’s voice softened too, pride threading through it. “Working. Doing what I do. Making sure the beats land. Making sure the story reads even when the universe tries to rewrite it.”   Lilly’s chest warmed at that—at how he could be exhausted and still speak about work like it mattered, like it was sacred.   “I miss you,” she said, and she didn’t dress it up.   There was a pause on the line. A quiet one.   “I miss you too,” Bryan answered, and it sounded like the truth. “So—tell me about you. Something that isn’t… monitors and schedules and—” his voice lifted into a teasing note, “—being the CEO of keeping everybody alive.”   Lilly’s lips curled. “Okay. Fine. I have something.”   “Hit me.”   “The GAP trip,” Lilly said, and the words came out with a spark—like she’d been waiting for permission to talk about herself without guilt. “Ft. Lauderdale this weekend.”   Bryan hummed approval. “There she is.”   Lilly exhaled, eyes drifting to her own reflection faintly visible in the dark—older than she’d been, softer in some places, sharper in others. “It’s not just clothes,” she said, voice gaining momentum. “It’s… story. It’s movement. It’s the way you can make somebody feel like they belong somewhere just by what they wear.”   She heard herself and felt something like relief—like she’d been holding that part of her in a closed fist for months and now she could open her hand.   “And I’m excited,” she admitted. “Like, actually excited. I want to be seen again, Bryan. Not just… useful.” There was affection in his silence. The kind that didn’t interrupt.   “You are seen,” he said finally. “You just forget sometimes that you’re not a machine.”   Lilly swallowed. Her throat tightened in a way that wasn’t sad—just… full.   “And,” she added, unable to help herself, “I’m good at it.”   Bryan chuckled. “You’re terrifyingly good at it.”   She grinned. “Thank you.”   “Okay,” Bryan said, shifting into a steadier tone. “Now… how’s Paul. How’d the appointment go with Mindy and the crew?”   Lilly’s smile faded into something more complicated—not gone, just… layered.   “We had wins,” she said first, because she knew Bryan needed that. “Sleeping patterns have improved. He’s… more consistent. Less startled. Less—” she searched for the word that didn’t sound like a clinical report. “Less like he’s living on the edge of a cliff all the time.”   Bryan let out a breath like he’d been holding it. “Good.”   “And Nia’s physical therapy is helping,” Lilly continued. “He hates parts of it, obviously. But his stamina is better. His recovery time is… better.”   Bryan’s voice stayed steady. “And the hard part.”   Lilly’s gaze dropped to the phone in her hand, to the date at the top of the screen, to time itself—always moving, always demanding.   “The eating,” she admitted. “It’s still… hard. He’s not where he needs to be. So today we started the new diet. More structured. More… toddler-focused snacks.”   There was a pause. Not judgment. Just Bryan absorbing it.   “Sounds like a challenge,” Bryan said carefully. “But… not impossible.”   “It’s not impossible,” Lilly agreed, but there was hesitation in her voice now, and Bryan heard it immediately—because he always did.   “What is it,” Bryan asked softly. “What aren’t you saying?”   Lilly closed her eyes for a moment and saw flashes—Martina’s apartment. The sharpness of words. The way a friendship could die without anyone actually leaving the room.   “Amber,” she said.   Bryan went quiet.   “They fought,” Lilly continued, keeping it brief but honest the way she promised herself she would be. “At Martina’s. It was… brutal. Things were said that can’t be unsaid.”   Bryan exhaled slowly. “Jesus.”   “And he’s carrying it,” Lilly added. “He’s carrying it like a stone in his chest. But then—” her voice softened, almost confused by it, “we had… lightness today. Finger painting courtesy of Harley. Actual laughter. For a minute it felt—”   “Normal,” Bryan supplied gently.   Lilly’s eyes stung. “Yeah. Normal.”   Bryan started to speak, and whatever he was going to say sounded like it was going to be the right thing—the thing that steadied, the thing that reminded her they were a team.   But he never got the chance. Because somewhere in the house, down the hall and up the stairs— A sound tore through the quiet.   Raw. Sudden. Like an animal cry that had learned how to be human. Then the hitching sobs—sharp, breathless, desperate—stacked one on top of the next. “MOMMMYYYYY——DADDYYYYYYY!!!!!”   Lilly and Bryan reacted nearly simultaneously.   “Paul.”   They said his name like a single body. Lilly was already moving, sheets flying back, bare feet hitting the floor as if the ground itself was an emergency.   Bryan’s voice sharpened through the phone. “Go. Go, Lil. Put me on speaker.”     Time yanked again. 10:15 p.m. Paul was still awake.   The sleepsack that was supposed to be comfort had become something else—soft, yes, but confining. He’d twisted and turned enough to work half the cover off, the fabric bunched around him like a failed hug. Behind the pacifier, soft, uncomfortable hisses and hums leaked out—tiny sounds that weren’t meant for anyone to hear, but couldn’t be contained.   He stared at the ceiling. His eyes had gone dead.   Every time he closed them he remembered the sensation—not emotion, not pain, but absence. Like someone had turned a switch and shut the world off inside him. Amber’s breath had caught. But her mouth kept moving anyway. That was when something in him snapped. He could hear it now, the quiet in his voice. Not shouting. Not wild. Controlled in a way that scared even him. She’d flinched.   Her eyes had burned. His gaze had flicked down—briefly, involuntarily—to the crinkle. The padding. The thing Martina had forced on both of them. And his mouth had twisted. His voice sharpened. That was when her breath caught. Paul remembered the look in her eyes then—fear, anger, recognition. That one echoed differently now. Not with satisfaction. With shame. Her tears had come instantly. Hot. Humiliating. And still— He’d gone further. That was when the room exploded. Crayons scattering. Chairs scraping. The sound too loud, too sharp. That was the line that finally landed. Amber had flinched hard. Like the words finally reached her. And then— Paul lay in bed now with that finality looping in his skull like a broken song. Over. Over meant the part of his life that still believed in before was dead. Over meant the person who knew too much, the one friend who had held pieces of him without dropping them, had just… let go.   His chest tightened until breathing became work.   He tried to swallow it down. He tried to do what he’d done all day—contain. Endure. Be the version of himself that didn’t inconvenience anyone. The version that could hold his face together even when his insides were on fire. But the dam had been cracking since morning.   Since rehearsal. Since dinner. Since the moment he’d watched the fridge door close on three paintings like proof that he was both healing and unraveling in the same hour.   He couldn’t do it anymore.   Paul woke up—really woke up—like a nightmare he could never wake up from. All the emotions he was suppressing the entire day had finally erupted and there didn’t seem to be an end in sight. His body shook. His throat burned. He wasn’t spiraling completely, but he was walking close to the edge—close enough to feel the drop.   He needed to be held. Loved.   Told everything was going to be okay even if it wasn’t. He needed softness. He needed the mercy of comfort that didn’t ask him to explain himself. He needed his Bryan & Lilly and he was only too motivated to scream out for them. And when he did—when the sound ripped out of him at last—it wasn’t just fear. It was grief, finally given permission to exist.   “Mom—” the word broke. “Mommy—”   Another sob tore through him.   “Dad—” the word broke. “Daddy—” Chapter One Hundred & Eight: Part 2 Lilly didn’t remember crossing the hallway. One second she was standing at the edge of the master bed, Bryan’s voice still echoing in her ear, her phone warm in her palm—and the next she was in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, the iPad propped upright against the fruit bowl like a makeshift altar.   The nanny cam feed filled the screen. Paul. Frantic.   The sleep sack—meant to soothe, meant to hold—had turned against him. The more he struggled, the more the fabric cinched and twisted, bunching around his legs and chest like a trap that answered panic with pressure. His arms thrashed uselessly. His breath came in short, broken gasps.   Lilly’s stomach dropped out.   “Oh God—”   She didn’t finish the sentence. Because she heard him then—not through the iPad speakers alone, but through the house itself.The sound wasn’t just crying.   It was terror.   A raw, unfiltered wail ripped from Paul’s chest, followed by choking sobs that caught and stuttered like his lungs couldn’t decide how to work anymore. Each breath scraped. Each exhale broke apart halfway through. He sounded like a child who had woken up alone in the dark and couldn’t find the edges of the world.   Lilly’s hand flew to her mouth. And then— Another voice. Not hers. Bryan.   Tinny through the speaker, distorted by distance and signal, but unmistakably him.   Lilly froze.   He must’ve installed the app. At some point—quietly, thoughtfully—he’d made sure he could see this too.   “Heyyy… hey, bud,” Bryan’s voice filled the room, soft but steady. “Daddy’s here.”   Paul’s sob hitched.   His body stilled just enough to listen.   “Daddy…?” The word came out broken, confused, searching—like Paul was trying to locate him in the walls.   “I hear you, buddy. I got you,” Bryan said gently. “I’m right here with you. That dream’s all done now, champ. It’s over.”   Paul’s breathing stuttered again, a sharp inhale scraping his throat raw.   “You’re safe in your bed, my wittle guy,” Bryan continued, deliberately slow, simple enough for a spiraling mind to catch onto. “Daddy’s watching you right now.”   Paul’s hands clenched into the fabric at his chest. But the crying didn’t stop.   It changed.   The wails collapsed inward, folding into desperate, animal-sounding whimpers that rose and fell without rhythm—like something trapped and hurting. Lilly moved again.   Her body knew what to do before her mind caught up.   She opened the drawer beneath the counter and pulled out the small orange bottle with Paul’s name printed cleanly across the label. Doctor-prescribed. Emergency use. Her hands shook as she twisted the cap.   “One pill,” she whispered to herself. “Just one.”   She crushed it carefully, methodically, the way she’d been taught—no shortcuts, no panic—and sprinkled the powder into the bottle she’d already prepared. The microwave hummed softly, oblivious to the crisis unfolding upstairs. Up on the screen, Paul’s head rolled from side to side.   “I— I fucked up, Daddy,” he sobbed suddenly, words tumbling out between gasps. “I fucked up so bad. I said awful things. She’s gone. Amber’s gone. I’ll never— I’ll never have her as a friend or a wife or anything. It’s over.”   Bryan’s breath caught audibly through the speaker. Paul’s voice cracked higher, spiraling faster.   “I ruined everything. She hates me. She’d rather see me dead. I wanna quit—I wanna quit the play, I never wanna see her again, she thinks I’m a disappointment and she’s right—she’s right—”   “Hey,” Bryan said firmly, fighting his own tears now. “Hey. You can hear my voice. Listen to me.”   Paul’s crying surged again, louder, sharper—like an animal caught in a trap, thrashing because stillness felt worse.   “I’m not a disappointment?” Paul pleaded, words slurring together. “I’m not? Because she said I was and— and I am, Daddy. My whole life is just—”   The microwave beeped. Lilly didn’t look back.     She tested the bottle on her wrist automatically—warm, safe—and then she was moving, iPad abandoned on the counter, feet pounding up the stairs two at a time.   “Paul!” she called, already choking on the sound of his name.   She burst into his room just as his sobs peaked—his body curled inward, shaking, eyes wild and unfocused.   “It’s okay, baby,” Lilly said instantly, voice soft but sure. “Shhh… Mama’s here.”   Paul turned toward the sound like gravity had shifted.   “Mommy—” Bryan’s voice overlapped through the speaker. “Both Mommy and Daddy are with you now, bud. You’re not alone.” Lilly set the bottle down on the nightstand and climbed into the bed without hesitation, unzipping the top of the sleep sack with careful urgency. The fabric loosened immediately.   Paul’s arms shot free and latched around her neck with startling strength.   Lilly pulled him in, chest to chest, one hand firm against his back, the other cradling his head.   “I know,” she whispered into his hair as his hiccupping sobs returned. “I know. You’re safe now. Nothing bad is happening.”   “No—” Paul cried weakly, tears soaking into her shoulder. “Everything bad’s happening. Amber hates me. Nana’s mad. Declan thinks I’m not good enough. Zach almost found out today—I can’t—I can’t—”   His tracker on the nightstand pulsed a violent, radioactive orange. Lilly rocked him gently, steady and relentless.   “You matter,” she said quietly. “You are getting better. You are loved. All of this—this storm—it’s passing.”   She reached for the bottle.   “Here we go, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Nice warm bottle. Just like you like it. Take your time.”   She guided it gently, purposefully. Paul resisted for half a second—then his body gave in. The nipple slipped into place, and his entire system responded like it had been waiting for permission to stand down.   The sobs didn’t stop immediately. They broke apart instead—turning ragged, then quieter, then uneven again as the rhythm of swallowing took over.   From the speaker, Bryan whispered, voice thick with tears, “That’s it. Good job, baby. You’re doing so well. Mama’s holding you.” A tear dropped onto Bryan’s phone screen in his hotel room, blurring the image. He lifted a finger and dragged it slowly, gently, across the glass—mirroring the motion Lilly was making in real time against Paul’s cheek.   Lilly rocked him. Slow. Deliberate. Endless.   Paul’s tracker eased from orange to yellow. Then hovered.   “You can close your eyes, mommy’s got you,” Lilly whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Mama’ll stay. You’re safe. You’re loved.”   Bryan’s voice softened further. “I love you, son. More than anything. And Lil—” he swallowed. “I love you too.”   “Goodnight, Bry,” Lilly murmured. “Love more.”   The room fell quiet except for the soft suckling sounds, the creak of the bed, the hush of breath returning to normal. The bottle slowly emptied. Paul’s eyes fluttered. His voice, barely audible around the nipple, drifted up one last time—   “Love you Mommy… and Daddy…”   Lilly’s chest filled past capacity. She held him there, rocking, whole and wrecked and complete all at once.     Sunlight came first. Not gently—too bright, too early—cutting through the thin gap in the curtains and spilling across Paul’s bed like it had somewhere important to be. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beam. The world felt thick, muffled, as though he were still underwater.   Paul stirred.   His sleep sack was half unzipped, twisted slightly from the night before, the fabric no longer snug but still clinging in places. The pacifier had found its way back to his mouth sometime after he fell asleep—he had no memory of when. His jaw worked around it automatically as he turned his head into the pillow.   Then— A voice. Sing-song. Familiar. Bright.   “Paul, honey,” Lilly called softly from the doorway. “You can’t just sleep the day away, you silly boy. We’ve got a cooking show to help shoot today.”   Paul made a low, displeased sound behind the pacifier and rolled onto his side, tugging the blanket closer with one hand. His body felt heavy, syrup-slow, the kind of tired that lived in his bones rather than his muscles.   Then— Another voice joined in. Older. Warm. Wrapped in an accent that tugged at something deep and instinctive.   “Mi valiente niño,” Martina said gently in Spanish. (My brave little boy.)   “Pauly, es hora de despertar. Tenemos que cambiarte, vestirte y darte de comer. Vamos, arriba, arriba para la abuela.” (Pauly, it’s time to wake up. We need to get you all changed, dressed, and fed. Come on—up, up for Nana.)   Paul groaned.   “Just five more minutes,” he mumbled around the pacifier, the words barely forming as his eyelids fluttered.   Lilly laughed lightly, moving closer. “Oh, no, no, no—sleepy boy. We need you up now. Martina’s right. Somebody needs a change and a full belly if they’re going to help the three of us today.”   “That’s right, Pauly,” Martina added warmly. “Listen to your mommy… y a mi Mami.” Paul’s stomach dropped.   His eyes snapped open—just enough.   The room was still blurred at the edges, light smearing into shapes, but the voice— No. No, that wasn’t—   Martina chuckled softly. “Mira eso, creo que ya despertó.” (Look at that, I think he’s waking up.)   She leaned closer, peering down at him. “Ay… sí. Bastante maduro.” (Oh… yes. Quite ripe.)   Paul’s heart began to pound.   “You definitely need a change now,” Martina continued, matter-of-fact, turning toward the dresser. “No, no—his diapers are in the top drawer. Bring the powder too.”   She paused, then added casually— “Amber.” The room tilted. Paul’s breath caught as a third figure stepped into view, her outline sharpening as his vision struggled to catch up. Amber “Sure, Mami,” Amber said easily, reaching into the drawer. “One dry diaper for the very wet baby.”   His pacifier slipped from his mouth. The sunlight pulsed brighter.........

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