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I taught middle school for 9 years before moving to high school.  I don't regret my decision.  I've watched 8th-grade girl drama many times. A lot of people feel sorry for Maddy,, but she's been awful to Hannah.  Much like it would be for Maddy, where not being friends with Emma is probably better for her mental health, it might be the same with Hannah.   Hannah sees the world through the eyes of an 8-year-old girl: And they are known to best the humans on earth.

Chapter 35 Across the great hall, someone screamed.  Daniel tried to stand on his tip-toes to see what was going on, but he wasn’t the only one to have that idea, and so instead of getting a good view, he just saw a dozen other heads that popped up in time to block his vantage point. From the stage, Doctor Cork turned and galloped forward, producing a frankly enormous wand, inset with a carving of twin vines, and in a few moments the commotion had died down. Whatever it was, the danger hadn’t spread, only the muttered rumors of what had happened.  (Is that Jen’s distraction?) Daniel wondered, but he couldn’t spot her near the source of the scream. “It’s Becky,” someone whispered nearby, relaying rumors that’d rippled quickly across the room, answering his unspoken question. “Her tattoo.”  Daniel barely knew who ‘Becky’ was, but he’d seen a girl with an enchanted tattoo of a serpent, one that moved on her body of its own accord. If magic was misbehaving, that could be freaky, though he didn’t know how it would be dangerous.  Since there seemed to be no imminent peril, he returned his attention back to Cassie. “So we’re good?” “Yeah. You’re sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Cassie asked, glancing around as she passed him a glowstick. “Too much explaining, and I want to be quick,” Daniel replied, cracking the stick so that it began to radiate dull green light. “Back in ten minutes, I’m just going straight to my room and then coming back. And you’re sure I won’t get in trouble?”  “Mandy said you should really have a prefect escort, but once I pointed out that your prefect was Rachel, she just gave me the stick and said it was fine,” Cassie explained. “Just don’t dillydally.”  “Do I seem like a dillydallier?” Daniel asked. “I’ll be right back.”  Glowstick raised, he checked over his shoulder one last time. He couldn’t draw line of sight to Rachel, so he trusted that Jen’s distraction was working and he would have time to get away. Slipping through one of the many sets of double doors leading into the corridors outside, he looked left and right, ducked his head down, and hurried towards his favorite back hall.  It was a weak starting place, but he didn’t know where else to look.  There was nobody else who could, no one else who knew about the danger.  His stomach lurched, sinking with a sudden pressure. Daniel blinked. It wasn’t fear, or any emotion at all. He had to use the bathroom.  Furrowing his brow, he stopped in his tracks, taking a moment for introspection. Magic was fluctuating in power, and apparently, that included the curse Rachel had laid on him. For the moment, he could feel when he had to go. (Will this trigger the safeguard she built into it?) he wondered, anxiety racing down his spine. She’d warned against tampering with the curse, using outside help to dispel it, so would this cause that effect to kick in?  He couldn’t do much about it at that moment, he had to keep going.  Pressing forward down the hall, he made it another dozen paces before–  (Fuck–ow, ow.)  Pressure turned to cramping, a sudden debilitating ache in his gut like he’d spent the whole night eating junk food and… Well, he had spent the night eating junk food, but he hadn’t expected the consequences to be quite so dire. He staggered, leaning against the wall for a moment. The cramps weren’t going to go away, not unless… He blushed. (Screw it, it’s not like this is anything new.) Crouching against the wall, he found himself wishing he didn’t have his potty training back–at least when it was due to Rachel’s curse, he didn’t have to actually make a choice.  Since magic was on the fritz, he had to make the deliberate decision to push, filling up the seat of his already-abused diaper. He really did need a change, that part of his excuse hadn’t been made up, and now that was more true than ever, as the full diaper squished inside his fashionable, leak-stained overalls.  “Ugh,” he grunted. “I…”  He paused, realizing he had an opportunity. The curse wasn’t actively affecting him. For as long as this fluctuation in power continued, he had a real shot at actually removing Rachel’s curse, ridding himself of the magic-induced incontinence she’d bestowed upon him.  He’d need help, but it was a chance. An opportunity.  Not only that, but he didn’t even have to go out of his way to get there. Whether he wanted to find information about the ongoing crisis or get help with his curse, his first step would be to go to Ismella.  Surging with excitement, he picked up his pace and began to– … Something smacked Daniel on the face, hard enough to sting. His neck hurt, he was resting against something hard that jutted out awkwardly behind him. He blinked and looked around, but the room was dark save for an ominous glowstick held by an enemy. (Oh no.) Rachel leered above him, grinning like an idiot. “Wake up, spark,” she said. She had Cassie’s jacket folded over an arm, taken from around Daniel’s waist, and looked like she’d been given an early Christmas. “Let’s see how you’re going to talk your way out of this one.”  He sat up a little more and looked from side to side. There were narrow walls on either side of him, his glowstick at his feet, and he saw a roll of toilet paper bolted into one of the walls, which quickly narrowed down the possibilities for where he was.  “Am I…in a bathroom?” he asked. “What’s going on?”  Rachel paused and tapped her wand to her chin. “That’s an excellent question. I have a little theory, walk me through it and see if I’m wrong: You noticed that, with the instability going on right now, the little curse on your potty training was more fragile than normal. You thought you might be able to undo it, so you made up an excuse about changing out of your leaky diapers, snuck out of the grand hall, came to a bathroom, tried to undo it, fucked up, and blasted yourself in the face with magic that knocked you out. Did I get it all right?”  (I was running down the hall, and then…what happened?)  “Uh…” he started, confused and off guard.  “And…” Rachel lowered her wand and used it to prod the crotch of his overalls, squelching his diaper, then she wrinkled up her nose for dramatic effect. “It seems like you couldn’t even fix a very simple aura binding even with the fluctuation going on.”  “None of that’s true,” Daniel said, sitting upright. There was a toilet behind him, he’d been lying against it when he woke up, and porcelain made for a terrible pillow–his neck and back ached. “I didn’t come here, I was going to my room, and then there was a flash, and I woke up here.”  Tilting her head, Rachel thought about it for a moment. Daniel felt a microsecond of hope, but it vanished when she said, “God, you’re really that stupid, aren’t you? You couldn’t even think of a believable lie?”  Another thought struck him. “Wait, why–how did you find me? What are you doing here?”  “You’ve been missing for an hour, spark,” she explained. “The teachers arranged a little rescue party to go looking for you, and I guessed right away where I’d be able to find you.”  He shook his head. He’d been brought here, it was the only explanation that made sense, but why?  Dread built inside him, both from the implications of that, and the fact he was currently taking the full brunt of Rachel’s sadistic smile.  “Are you going to tell me to drop out?” Daniel asked. “And turn me in if I don’t?” Rachel rolled her eyes. “Oh, no, we’re way beyond that. You’re going to be expelled for this, obviously.” Reaching out with the same hand that held her wand, Rachel grabbed one of the straps of his overalls and towed him up to his feet. “Come on, spark, let’s go tell everyone where I found you.”  He struggled for a moment, but doubted he could resist, and quickly realized there would be no point. Even if he got away from Rachel, he had nowhere to go and nothing he could accomplish that would fix this.  Pathetically, he looked down at the leak stains on his overalls and asked, “Can I have that jacket back?”  “What do you think, spark?” Fingers entwined with the strap, Rachel pulled him forward, giving Daniel the distinct impression of being on a leash as she led him out of the bathroom stall. She didn’t return the jacket, so his leak stains were extremely visible when she tugged him into the corridor. Once out, she raised the hand holding her glowstick and shouted, “I found him!” with enough volume that it echoed back to her as she called it.  They were right across the corridor from the great hall. He’d been dumped somewhere immediately adjacent to where he’d left, suggesting that he’d never even tried to go to his room.  Giving him a yank just to make him stumble, Rachel pulled him towards the great hall. It was a struggle to keep up and stay upright, and in the stumbling waddle, he couldn’t do anything about the way his diaper squelched between his thighs; he had no opportunity to try and step gingerly and avoid making the situation worse. He struggled and shuffled his way into the great hall, still dimly lit and full of buzzing students.  There were no teachers or faculty present save for Doctor Cork, monitoring the whole situation from the stage, so Rachel pulled Daniel in the direction of the centaur. “I found him,” Rachel announced, shoving Daniel towards the towering figure. “In a girl’s bathroom, trying to do magic.”  “I wasn’t!” Daniel yelped. “I swear!”  Doctor Cork studied him, looking down over her nose. “He’s not hurt?”  “No. It looked like he’d passed out from magic use,” Rachel explained.  “I wasn’t–” he began, but that would have been an argument, so he fell silent. “So what now?”  “Your prefect is responsible for you until the crisis is over,” Cork explained. “I have several hundred witches to keep safe. Rachel, see to him.”  Daniel squirmed, a chill running down his spine. He’d hoped to find at least a temporary rescue, not to be passed back off to the school’s most sadistic student.  Nose wrinkling, Cork added, “And do something about your diaper.”  Daniel opened his mouth to reply, but Rachel cut in before he could. “Fat chance–you had the opportunity to go get a fresh diaper, like you’d said you would. I think you’ve made your bed, you can stew in it.” The centaur seemed annoyed to still be having this conversation, but still came to his defense. “Ms. Haligtree, we may be in this place for some time.” “He’s my responsibility, right?” Rachel didn’t look back at the doctor, instead leering down at Daniel. “He snuck out, caused a panic, wasted time and resources looking for him that could have been used elsewhere. As the prefect in charge of him, I think it’s only fair that his punishment fits the crime–he had the opportunity to change and didn’t, why should we cater to him?”  “It’s not for him,” Doctor Cork said. “He stinks, and we’re all sharing the same air. I also suspect he’ll be making puddles if he uses that diaper again, and additionally, I will not be adding diaper rash to the list of medical issues I have to handle today.”  Someone in the mingled crowd of witches giggled, and Daniel realized that, while he’d been focused only on the two women in front of him, their voices were carrying well beyond their personal bubble. This was not a private conversation.  Rachel scowled, ready to make a new argument, and he felt a moment of hope. Then, a wicked smile grew across her face and she pointed to the back corner of the room. “Alright. I’ll have to go retrieve his diapers. Until then, Daniel–go stand in that corner, keep your nose right against the wall.” Time-out. Not the most sadistic punishment she could have invented, but certainly a humiliating one. He balled his hands into fists, but took a breath. (Let it go. If you fight, that’s giving her what she wants.)  He turned and marched to the corner of the room, where he leaned his forehead against the corner of the wall. In that moment, the cold marble felt like a balm, a bit of relief for his swimming thoughts. Tutting behind him, Rachel said, “Mmm…no, not good enough. Let’s see your fingers laced behind your head.”  He shot a glare back at her. “Seriously?”  Rachel smirked. “Doctor Cork said it pretty clearly, didn’t she? You’re mine until we’re out of this room. You do what I say. Come on, spark–hands up.”  He complied, and though the posture didn’t make much difference to his boredom, it did send a new flush of humiliation through him. Somehow, even still fully clothed, the new stance made him feel more exposed.  “Don’t you dare move a muscle,” Rachel warned, “Unless you want to give me an excuse to make this much worse. I’ll be back.”  Despite her warning, Daniel stole a glance over his shoulder again, at the rest of the room. Since this had all happened at the front of the grand hall, he’d attracted a lot of eyes, a lot of gossip. Nearby witches had certainly heard the back and forth conversation, negotiating about the state of his diaper, and rumors would spread far faster than any smell. And, in this kind-of-sort-of time out, he couldn’t even do anything to defend his reputation.  Worse, his attempts to fix things had been stopped. Someone had stopped him, and put him in a position to be expelled, wanting to get rid of him for good. That meant he was on the right track, but if he wanted to stick around long enough to keep hunting, he’d have to come up with a plan to stay in the school. Rachel reached out and took his head in her hand, turning him back to the corner. “Nose. Here. Take shallow breaths, spark, but don’t you dare leave.”  He glowered. He didn’t want her to get in the last word, but all the same, he didn’t want to give her the dignity of a response either.  “Ta ta for now–once I’ve changed your diaper, we can talk about the rest of your punishment, I’ve got so many ideas.”  He groaned, but let her leave, and– (Wait. Did she say…’once I’ve changed your diaper’?) ... Happy new years! You know the drill. Subs get early access and exclusive stories! Just a few bucks a month! Help me buy diapers and also groceries. ❤️ Thank you! https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

I like to think of my specialty as 'Kinky horny smut that has entirely too much thought put into the worldbuilding', so that's exactly the reaction I'm hoping for!

Welcome back! I feel so bad for Maddy. It's quite impressive how deeply each new chapter keeps gripping me. And nice to hear that New Year's resolution. It's definitely a good sign that you are already starting on it in 2025! Looking forward to the next 2 chapters!

Chapter Eighty-Eight: Harley felt the moment before she fully saw it. The subtle click in the air when a household transitions from care to witness. When private rhythms become shared ones. She didn’t stiffen. Didn’t rush to explain. She let the warmth stay on her face because, in her mind, nothing here needed defending. This was the version of the afternoon she believed in most: calm, complete, honest. Then — lightly, sweetly — she tilted her head toward Paul. “Look, Pauly,” she said, voice gentle as a ribbon. “Mommy Lilly and Daddy are home.” The words landed. Paul felt them like a switch flipping somewhere deep in his chest. Not alarm. Not shame. Awareness. His body had been loose. His attention unguarded. His smile had come too easily. And now—suddenly—he could feel himself from the outside again. The room sharpened. The colors felt louder. His pulse spiked as his adult thoughts crowded back in, tripping over each other — What do I look like? Why did she say it like that? I should say something. I should— He swallowed. For a fraction of a second, he didn’t move at all. Like if he stayed perfectly still, the moment might pass without naming him. Bryan didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just watched his son — the way Paul’s shoulders squared a beat too late, the way his eyes darted, recalibrating — and felt something ache behind his sternum. Not worry. Recognition. That fragile pivot point he’d learned to see over the years—the instant Paul returned to himself and realized he’d been seen mid-rest. Bryan didn’t rush to rescue him from it. Didn’t tease. Didn’t soften it away. He let Paul find his footing. Lilly stepped forward at last, smooth and composed, her hand brushing Paul’s shoulder in passing — grounding, familiar. The contact was light, intentional. Not corrective. Just present. “Hey, sweetheart,” she said evenly. “Looks like you had a good afternoon.” Paul nodded. Once. Too fast. “Yeah,” he said. His voice came out higher than he expected. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. We—uh—played.” The word played felt small and enormous all at once. Lilly’s gaze softened—she leaned in, kissed the top of his head the way she always did (recently), then reached for the bib still tied loosely around his neck. Her fingers moved slowly as she wiped away the faint smear of yogurt at the corner of his mouth—nothing rushed, nothing pointed. When she untied the bib, she folded it once in her hand like it belonged there. Bryan followed, bending down just enough to kiss Paul’s temple, his hand settling briefly between Paul’s shoulder blades. It wasn’t a check. It was a bookmark. “Hey, buddy,” Bryan said quietly. “Looks like you were busy.” Then—deliberately—he turned to Harley. “So,” Bryan asked, voice easy, open, unforced, “how’d he do?” Harley didn’t hesitate. “Oh my gosh,” she said immediately, practically glowing. “He did soo good. Like—so good. Such a good boy. Such a sweet, sweet boy.” She let out a little laugh, hands fluttering as she talked. “He listened so nicely, stayed right with me the whole time, just toddled along like, ‘Okay! What’s next?’ Total angel vibes. He played, he explored, he tried new stuff, and he did it all with the best little attitude.” Her voice slipped easily into baby-talk, affectionate and sing-song. “And ohhh my goodness—his imagination? Stop it. Once he got going, he was gone. Just off in his own little world, makin’ stories, movin’ his toys around like he had important business to do. I could’ve watched him forever.” She grinned, shaking her head. “Now, okay—was he a tiny bit of a stinker sometimes? Ohhh yes. Absolutely. Just a sprinkle of stinker.” She pinched her fingers together. Then she leaned in, eyes wide, clearly proud. “And honestly? The best part? He was SUCH a good little helper. Like, sooo patient. Stayed so still when I needed him to, listened so carefully, did exactly what I asked. I kept tellin’ him, ‘You are crushin’ it, snugbug! Total superstar!’” Her tone softened into something warm and sincere. “You’ve got the best little guy. Sweet, gentle, curious, happy—just an absolute joy. I had so much fun with him. I’d hang out with him any day.” Paul felt that land differently. Not praise for being good. Praise for being himself. Something in his chest loosened, just a notch. Bryan nodded slowly, absorbing it—not weighing, not deciding yet. Just taking it in. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands together once, light and casual, “sounds like we’ve got a bit of a toy situation in the living room.” Paul followed his gaze instinctively. The scattered blocks. The mat. The evidence of a day that hadn’t needed supervision so much as permission. “How about you and me take care of that, huh?” Bryan added. “Give Lilly and Harley some space to wrap things up in here.” Paul hesitated—only a breath. Not resistance. Just transition. Then he nodded. “Okay,” he said. The word came easier than it had earlier. Lilly turned toward Harley, already shifting roles with quiet efficiency. “If you don’t mind,” she said warmly, “I can help you in the kitchen.” Harley smiled. “Of course. I’d love that.” As they split—Bryan guiding Paul gently toward the living room, Lilly stepping beside Harley at the counter—the house didn’t tighten. It held.   Harley stood at the sink washing up the yogurt bowl, sleeves pushed up, humming under her breath as if a melody could stitch the afternoon into something tidy. The sound wasn’t loud. It wasn’t performative. It was the kind of hum you hear from daycare workers when the room is safe and the day is moving the way it should. Lilly was beside her, wiping down the counter in quiet, efficient strokes. Not hovering. Not retreating. Just… present. That careful middle ground she always found when she was watching something she didn’t fully trust but couldn’t afford to dismiss. They weren’t cold. They weren’t friends. They were two women sharing a task with polite warmth and private calculations ticking behind their eyes. Then Lilly’s gaze dropped to the trash. A small, crumpled pouch sat there like it didn’t belong—too bright, too baby aisle for the rest of the kitchen’s clean, adult lines. Gerber Strawberry & Apple. Lilly’s fingers paused mid-wipe. Shocked wasn’t the right word. Stunned was closer. Not because of the pouch itself—because of what it represented: initiative without permission. A solution that didn’t ask. She reached into the trash, lifted it out, turned it once in her fingers like evidence. When she looked up, Harley was just finishing drying the bowl, patting it with a towel as if she’d never done anything more consequential than a sink full of dishes. Lilly kept her voice even. “How did you ever get Paul to eat this?” Harley’s grin bloomed immediately—bright, pleased, almost proud in the way someone gets when their method works and they’ve been waiting to be asked about it. She tipped her head, and her tone softened into that familiar caregiver cadence—warm, rounded, slightly sing-song, like she couldn’t help filtering her world through “safe.” “Oh,” Harley said lightly, like it was nothing. “You mentioned Paul’s need for more nutrients based on his condition, and while a banana is great, I had this pouch handy and just mixed it in with the yogurt. He didn’t even notice.” Lilly watched her closely. Harley’s smile widened, and she leaned into it—not in a smug way, but in that eager, I can help way that always carried an edge of hunger underneath it. “It’s honestly the BEST way I’ve found to get littles of any age to eat extra veggies and fruits just by sneaking it in there,” Harley continued, as if sharing a secret between professionals. “Plus who does it hurt.” Those words landed with a quiet, unavoidable clarity. Sneaking it in. Who does it hurt. Lilly could feel two reactions happen at once. One part of her—practical, exhausted, responsible—lit up. This is useful. Paul eating anything extra right now felt like a victory. A body stabilized was a mind stabilized. A mind stabilized meant fewer spirals. The other part of her—the part that watched for power—flinched. Because “sneaking” wasn’t just a nutrition trick. It was a philosophy. Lilly made her face do the right thing: appreciative, measured. “That’s a really great idea,” she said, and she hated how true it was. “We do the juicing,” Lilly added, shifting into reciprocity like a chess player offering a piece to see what the other person does with it. “His pediatrician suggested making and freezing purées to slip into hot meals. We hadn’t considered options like these yet.” Harley’s eyes brightened like the word pediatrician had handed her a key to the house. “Oh my gosh—yes,” Harley said, capitalizing immediately, but in a way that still sounded sweet. “Homemade is awesome, don’t get me wrong. But pouches are fast. And if you’re already doing purées, you’re basically doing the same thing—just… without calling it baby food.” She said baby food like she didn’t mind the term—like she’d never learned to be embarrassed by care. Then she launched into tips with the same bubbly certainty she used with Paul: She talked about easy blends. About keeping flavors simple. About how texture mattered more than adults realized. About how you could hide a whole world in something sweet. “My little brother Luke,” Harley said, voice softening with real affection. “When he was about two, he’s nearly three now. He would and still does fight anything green like it was personally attacking him.” She laughed, then added, “So Mom and I would shave carrot, eggplant—anything—right into meat sauce. He’d never notice. He’d just be like, ‘Wow, this tastes good,’ and I’d be like… yep, sure does, buddy.” Lilly found herself nodding before she could stop it, her mind already running through what could work in chili, in pasta, in casseroles. She even offered a few recipes back—ways to fold in hidden vegetables without changing taste too much. For a moment, the kitchen felt almost… normal. Two women swapping suggestions. Care sharing care. And then, without warning, Lilly’s mind slid sideways into the booth.   It had been a private booth in a restaurant—one of those places where the lighting was dim enough to make everything look softer than it was. A small candle in a glass holder. A dessert menu placed between them like a prop for normalcy. Bryan had been trying to make it a date. Lilly had been trying to pretend she could. But the moment the server walked away, she had pulled out her phone with a kind of guilty determination that made Bryan’s throat tighten. Not one feed. Three. Three nanny cam angles—three small windows into their home, running live. Lilly remembered the way her stomach had dropped when she saw it, the way her first instinct had been this is wrong and her second instinct had been but what if it’s necessary. Desperate people did extreme things for the ones they loved. They hadn’t said it out loud, but it had been sitting between them like a third person at the table: We are crossing lines. Bryan had justified it with his eyes. Just until we know he’s okay. Lilly had allowed it with her silence. Just until we can breathe. The worst part wasn’t the watching. It was the feeling that came with it—like the world narrowed until it was only Paul’s safety and everything else became negotiable. They’d sat there with dessert untouched, their fingers occasionally brushing in a half-hearted attempt at affection, while their attention remained glued to a tiny screen showing their son’s living room. They’d heard Harley’s voice. Heard Paul’s voice. Heard the conflict. And then—during the stretch that mattered most—Lilly watched Paul stay in frame while Harley slipped out of it. Not entirely. Not always. But long enough. Long enough for unease to crawl up Lilly’s spine like cold water. Harley was audible. Harley was present. But visually? Just… not there. Lilly had stared so hard her eyes had started to burn. Bryan had kept glancing at her, reading her expression like he always did. And even then—he hadn’t turned the feed off. Because desperation made you rationalize the unthinkable. Now, standing in her own kitchen again, Lilly smiled at Harley’s tips, nodded at the pouch trick, even felt genuine gratitude rise. And still—beneath that—her mind kept returning to the empty space on the camera feed. An absence that could mean nothing. Or it could mean everything. Harley dried her hands, still smiling. “Honestly,” she said softly, “I just wanted him calm again. That was the goal.”     Meanwhile, in the living room, Bryan and Paul were cleaning up the aftermath together—gathering up the foam blocks, the safari mat folded and set aside, toys migrating back to their bin like a small city rebuilding after a storm. Bryan gave himself tasks because tasks made him feel useful. Paul moved with that odd hybrid energy—part teenage self-awareness, part lingering softness from earlier, like he wasn’t sure which version of himself was supposed to be driving right now. Bryan picked up the Batman figure and held it up at eye level, giving it a tiny swoop through the air. “So,” he said lightly, “what’s your favorite one, buddy?” Paul blinked, like no one had asked him that in a long time. Like it was a question meant for someone else. “My favorite… toy?” Bryan nodded. “Yeah. Like—if you had to pick one.” Paul’s mouth opened, and for a second, Bryan saw him split in real time: the older boy who wanted to dismiss the question, and the younger part that lit up on instinct. “Batman,” Paul said quickly. “Anything Batman.” Bryan smiled, a genuine soft curve. “Yeah,” he said. “That checks out.” He tipped the figure side to side. “But which Batman’s your most favorite Batman?” Paul kept stacking blocks, then added, almost in passing—almost defensively- “I like playing with Batman a lot. I used to want a Batcave.” Bryan’s eyes warmed. “You did?” Paul laughed—too fast. Too loud. Adult armor snapping into place. “Yeah when I was three that’s what I wanted.” Bryan chuckled, then—without thinking—he followed up in a way that leaned too far, assuming his boy was still in that little space of his he continued. Bryan leaned in closer now, dropping his voice, drawing it out like a secret was coming. “Welllll then,” he said slowly, “the Batcaaave, huh?” Then—on purpose—his tone shifted. Softer. Sing-song. Ridiculously fun. “Well now, buddy-roo,” he went on, stretching the words, “maaaaybe… if you were a reeeeally, reeeeally good boy…” Paul stopped stacking completely. All eyes on Dad. “…maaaaybe Santa could go, ‘Hmmmm,’” Dad said, squinting dramatically, “and make a teeny-tiny exception.” Paul’s mouth fell open. “Like,” Bryancontinued, leaning closer, “change a Christmas present into a suuuper-duper birthday gifty instead.” Paul’s shoulders stiffened. Not angry. Just… touched. Bryan caught it instantly. His stomach tightened, Paul was Paul again and not his little boy. “Sorry,” Bryan said quietly, correcting course. “I didn’t mean—” Paul shook his head quickly. “No, it’s—whatever. It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine. Not fully. Bryan set the Batman figure down carefully, like lowering a fragile truth into the toy bin. Then he asked the question he’d been carrying since the moment he stepped through the door. He kept his voice low. The question landed between them like a weight. Paul didn’t answer right away. He stared at the plastic rim of the toy bin, fingers still resting on Batman’s cape, and felt something inside him split—not cleanly, but jagged, like a fault line reopening under pressure. His adult side spoke first, sharp and alert, already braced for damage. She’s too into it. She’s too eager. It’s weird.   She isn’t Savannah….. That last name carried its own ache. Savannah had been care without hunger. Presence without insistence. She’d known when to step back. She had a life—classes, friends, a future that didn’t orbit Paul’s needs. Harley doesn’t step back, his adult side warned. She leans in. Then his little side answered—not with words to start, but with sensations. The calm in his body. The tracker staying green. The way his chest hadn’t felt tight all afternoon. Then it echoed with a different kind of logic: Rules and routine work. This is working. Why are we fighting what works? Plus she’s funny and likes us in diapers wet or messy. The two sides circled each other, not enemies exactly—more like opposing attorneys arguing the same case from different ends of the law. And then, unexpectedly, his adult side drifted somewhere dangerous. Someday, it thought—quiet, almost embarrassed—this ends. Someday he wouldn’t need diapers. Someday he’d be autonomous again. Someday he might date. The thought of Harley slid into that imagined future before he could stop it, holding hand not like now but as equals, boyfriend & girlfriend? Not now. Not like this. Later. Different. Grown. The idea startled him with its normalcy. His little side laughed outright at the thought, bright and dismissive. Babies NEVER date their babysitters. Gross and yucky.  Besides Mindy said the care will be indefinite.   Indefinite. The word dropped into Paul’s stomach like ice. Before he could stop himself—before the fear calcified—Paul blurted it aloud, too fast, too raw and it landed back in the real world. “That doesn’t mean diapers forever.” The words echoed louder than he expected. Bryan looked at him. Really looked. Paul’s face flushed. He shook his head immediately, as if trying to shove the thought back inside. As if hope itself had slipped out without permission, he couldn’t think about that now he needed to give his father an answer. If not Harley, then who? The thought of starting over—another person learning his rules, his triggers, his body—felt unbearable. The exposure. The explaining. The risk of someone worse. Luciana? Whitney? Savahana? That was the cruelest part. The best option was unavailable. What remained was Harley. And if it isn’t her, it will be someone else. Someone worse. Someone who wouldn’t read him as well. Someone who wouldn’t care as much. Someone who might do real damage while trying to help. Paul closing his eyes again for just one second to finally get an answer.  He didn’t get one right away, first he was greeted by his nightmares. Fast. Vivid. Wrong in the way fear always is. He dreamt that he had said “No” to Harley, then Martina from outta nowhere stood in front of him. Smile warm but she was dead behind the eyes and wicked as she volunteered Amber to be his new sitter. Then like they grew out of the ground like the tallest redwood tress he was suddenly surrounded by Lilly, Bryan, Whitney, Amber, Kim, Mindy. Everyone nodding like it made sense. That’s when he heard it, that when he saw it, no her….. “Ohhhhhh, here it comes,” she sang, stretching the words until they barely sounded real anymore. “Here comes the aaaaiiiir-plaaaneee—vrrrooooom!” Amber tilted the spoon in looping arcs, making buzzing sounds as if the room itself were part of the game. “Careful now… careful… open wi-i-iiide for the biiiiig bite…” Paul’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t move. He was smaller in the dream—not physically, but socially. Pinned by the way she talked, the way she smiled like this was funny. She laughed suddenly, too loud, too light. Then he saw Amber on the phone, back turned, water running somewhere he couldn’t see. “Yeah, it’s gross,” she laughed. “I gotta give the messy baby a bath.” Laughter on the other end. Not mean—worse. Casual. Paul tried to speak. No sound came out of him, but he heard her friends instead. “Ohhh my goodness, he sounds like the slinkiest and messiest baby ever!” “Awww, it’s okay, sweetheart,” one voice cooed. “Don’t cry, baby,” another chimed in, syrupy and singsong. Then he was greeted by the familiar view of his ceiling when he was laid down for a change, oh-no. He saw her, Amber looking right down at him, she was going to change him. She was shaking something out—soft, white, loud in the quiet. A diaper. HIS diaper. “Fluff, fluff, fluff!” she chirped. “Gotta make it juuust right.” Her tone softened into exaggerated reassurance. “Nice and cozy, nice and soft. Mmm-hmm. That’s what we want.” She nodded, pleased with herself. “See? All ready. All waiting. Just for you, baby.” A pause. She glanced sideways, smiling at someone just off to the right. “Do you wanna help change the baby?” she asked lightly. “It’d be good practice, Marcus.” The world tilted. Another face slid into view. Marcus Too close. Too real. His smug face mocking Paul, before winking at him before turning and kissing Amber beyond passionately. Paul’s chest seized— “Paul.” Bryan’s voice cut through it. Firm. Grounded. Real. Paul blinked hard, breath catching as the nightmare evaporated like smoke. He was back in the living room. Toys. TV. His dad’s Nikie’s on the rug. He turned to Bryan. “Yeah, Dad,” Paul said quietly, honestly and with a hint of trepidation right at the end said. “I trust her.” The words felt heavy leaving his mouth. Not relief. Not certainty. Just acceptance. Bryan felt the weight of the words I trust her settle into him slowly, not as relief, but as recognition. This wasn’t trust the way people usually meant it. This was triage. Bryan hated that this was the world Paul was navigating. Hated that care came with trade offs. Hated that safety wasn’t clean anymore. But he also knew that Paul had decided. And that mattered. Bryan nodded once, slow and solemn. “Alright,” he said gently. “Thanks for telling me.” Paul let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Bryan left Paul to finish cleaning up, but before he walked away, his eyes flicked to the TV—still paused on Miami Vice. He hesitated. Probably isn’t right for my boy now, he thought, and the thought carried grief with it—grief for the teenage version of Paul who would’ve watched it with him like it was nothing. He switched it. Not to something humiliating. To something heroic. Something with structure. Justice League. The orchestral cartoon instrumental hugged the living room with low-volume heroics, like the house was offering Paul a story where someone always saved the day. Bryan saw the change instantly in his son, who stopped picking up the last of the toys and instead sat on the floor letting bright colors with capes & tights wash over him. Bryan re-entered the kitchen and saw Harley and Lilly sitting at the island now, each with a glass of lemonade—civil, composed, almost normal from a distance. Harley’s back was to him. Bryan lifted a hand and started trying to catch Lilly’s attention without being obvious. It turned into something ridiculous fast—small waves, exaggerated eyebrow raises, a silent urgency that made him look exactly like what he was: a father trying to coordinate a life-altering decision in his own kitchen like it was a covert operation. A mime on crack. Lilly glanced up, saw him, and gave a tiny nod just to make him stop. Bryan’s face shifted. Serious now. He mouthed “He’s in.” Lilly’s chest tightened. Not relief. Not fully. More like… inevitability. Time was running out. And despite the red flags, there were too many green ones they couldn’t ignore. They’d agreed: Harley would be the best fit for now. But Paul had to agree. Now he had. Lilly looked at Harley and said, gently, “Harley, do you have a moment to talk? Maybe at the table?” Harley smiled immediately—then paused, finger lifting like a polite interruption. “Just a sec,” she said warmly, already moving. She walked past them like she belonged—like the house had already accepted her rhythm. She reached into the cookie jar and pulled out one very large, soft brownie fudge-and-white-chocolate-chip cookie. Then she filled Paul’s sippy cup with milk. “I made a promise,” she said, mostly to herself, voice soft and pleased. And then she headed out toward Paul in the living room. They could hear her before they saw her. “Okayyyy, Pauly,” Harley sang gently. “Cookie time. Milky time. You earned this, sweet boy.” A small pause. Then Paul—muffled, quieter, but present offered “Thanks’s Harley.” A moment later, Harley returned—cookie gone, milk delivered, promise kept. Slid into the seat across from Lilly and Bryan, hands folding neatly like a professional. Her smile was bright. Controlled. Ready.   Bryan set two leather-bound black folders down with a care that was almost ceremonial, aligning them so cleanly they could have been part of a closing argument. Lilly noticed the detail and felt the familiar tightening in her ribs: that instinct that meant Bryan was about to speak like a man who’d negotiated disasters into survivable outcomes. Harley watched the folders without reaching for them. Her posture changed on its own—spine tall, hands neatly folded, the warm daycare cadence tucked away like a cardigan she could put on again at will. Not gone. Just… set aside. Professional. Bryan didn’t start with the paperwork. He started with the truth. “Harley,” he said, steady, “I want to acknowledge what you did well today.” Harley’s eyes flicked up. She didn’t smile yet. She waited—like someone trained to read tone before content. “Paul was regulated when we walked in,” Lilly added, measured. “He was fed. Calm. Engaged cute in that outfit we assumed you bought for him. That’s not nothing.” Harley’s mouth softened into something close to pride—checked, but real. “I’m glad,” she said quietly. “I just wanted him to feel safe.” Bryan nodded once, then leaned forward, forearms on the table. “There’s something we need to say before we go any further.” Harley’s gaze didn’t move. “Okay.” “You have a gift for care,” Bryan said. “Especially comfort-forward care. You create safety quickly.” A small inhale from Harley—gratitude catching before she could suppress it. “But,” Bryan continued—and the single word shifted the room—“Paul is seventeen. In three weeks he turns eighteen. And no matter what he’s dealing with, he needs autonomy wherever it’s possible.” Harley’s brows lifted slightly. Listening. “He needs to be asked,” Bryan said. “Not just guided. Even when the guidance is well-intended.” Lilly followed, her tone calm enough to sound gentle and sharp enough to land. “We’re not telling you to stop what works. We’re telling you to listen for when he needs space first. Paul isn’t a young man who keeps things quiet. If he’s uncomfortable, he’ll show you. He’ll say it.” Harley’s expression flickered—something like amusement, then relief, then a kind of sincerity that made it hard to label as performance. “My birthday’s December seventh,” she said, and a quick, nervous giggle escaped her. “What a small world just a day early. That’s… wow. It’s like we’re a perfect fit.” Lilly didn’t mirror the giggle. She filed it. Harley caught herself and sobered instantly. “Thank you for telling me that,” she said. “Truly. If we work together, I want to do this with you. Tell me how to… adjust the temperature.” Bryan exchanged a glance with Lilly. A silent agreement passed between them—not trust, not yet, but alignment. He slid the first folder toward Harley. “We’d like to make you an offer.” Harley opened it. Her eyes moved quickly. Then slower. Then stopped. “This is… a salary,” she said, careful. “Yes,” Lilly replied, watching her closely. “Ninety-day probation is in the second folder.” Harley opened that one too. $85,000 The number didn’t just surprise her—it rearranged something inside her. She’d known the general range. She’d done the math. Private childcare didn’t usually look like this unless it came with celebrity-level chaos or round-the-clock intensity. Her brain tried to grab onto something practical so it wouldn’t have to feel how seen she suddenly felt. “My dad makes ninety-five a year ,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them, then she swallowed and corrected herself, “—sorry. I just mean… this is… serious.” Bryan didn’t smile. “It is,” he said simply. “This isn’t a compliment. This is what it costs to invest in our son’s life. Than we’re willing to do so as long as he gets the best he needs.” That sentence landed like a gavel. Lilly kept her voice steady. “The probation clause is non-negotiable. If this isn’t working within ninety days—if you decide it’s not right, or we decide it’s not right—you’ll receive a final one time payment of twenty thousand. All NDA’s remain in place for the remainer of the year.” Harley’s throat tightened. Not greed. Not excitement. Something closer to validation—and fear of dropping it. “Why?” Harley asked, and she meant it in the cleanest way. Why would you protect me? In that one word question Lilly finally understood something Harley didn’t: contracts can be ended cleanly. People can’t. “Because you’re young,” Lilly said. “Because you have a gift. And if this isn’t the right fit, we won’t punish you for investing you time and talent.” Bryan added, quieter, as if the next part belonged to him alone, “And because people deserve a hand up even when things don’t go perfectly.” He paused. The words came from somewhere deeper than business. Harley looked at him—really looked—and for a second she saw something old behind his composure. A man who’d learned the hard way what helplessness tasted like and never wanted to swallow it again. They moved into the legal structure. “Personal services contract,” Lilly said, tapping the page lightly. “This includes confidentiality and a non-disclosure clause. There are no social posts. No sharing details with friends or family. Unless there’s a need, in which case you’ll find a request form which must be submitted ASAP which will be forwarded to a neutral 3rd party abature who will make the determination 49% and we retain the 51% it needs to be a 100% approved. No ‘funny story’ texts. Our son’s privacy is not negotiable.” Harley nodded immediately. “Of course.” Bryan’s voice remained even. “Availability clause. You’ll receive a minimum one to two hour notice when we need you, between six a.m. and nine p.m.” He let that hang there—not to intimidate her, but to make sure she understood you are being hired to be part of the house’s nervous system. “Primary days we expect you to be available unless something personal or unforeseen occurs are Tuesday, Thursday, and weekends,” Lilly continued. “There may be extended evenings as needed.” Harley’s pen hovered above the page, poised to write. “And you’ll be working alongside Martina,” Bryan said, and something in him softened when he said her name. Not relief. Reverence. Harley glanced up. “Martina?” Lilly answered first, crisp. “Meal prep, household oversight, and care coverage on the days she’s here.” But Bryan held the thread and kept it. “Martina,” he said, slower now, “is the closest thing this family has to a cornerstone.” Lilly’s eyes slid to Bryan.  He looked at Harley as if he needed her to understand this part not as a bullet point, but as a warning and a promise. “Martina’s daughter is Paul’s age,” he said. “They grew up together. And as our families lives changed Martina was key in holding two families together—” Bryan’s mind betrayed him with a memory like a cut. Not a full scene—glimpses. Sharp fragments which he kept to himself but they would shape not just what he said but how he said it. A small bedroom. A child’s sock in his own hand, stretched open like a mouth that wouldn’t cooperate. Paul at five—small body, huge grief—thrashing and sobbing, screaming no over and over, as if the word could pull his mother back from wherever she’d gone. Bryan could smell aftershave he’d put on out of habit, then hated himself for it because habit felt like betrayal. A suit laid out for the graveyard. A tie. Shoes. A quiet day that wasn’t quiet at all. Paul’s face wet and furious and terrified. “Mommy can’t be dead!” the child screamed—raw, absolute, not metaphor, not drama. Truth. Bryan remembered gripping the dresser so hard his knuckles went white, the pressure the only thing keeping him from breaking in front of his son. He remembered his own voice, too tight, too controlled. “Paul, we have to—” And then the doorway. Martina arriving like weather—warm, steady, inevitable. She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t analyze. She crossed the room and scooped Paul up like she’d done it a hundred times, even though it was the first. Rocked him. Swayed. Pressed her cheek to his hair. And started humming. Not English. Spanish. A lullaby without words her sound wasn’t instruction. It was permission to collapse safely. Paul’s sobs had hitched, angry and uneven at first, and Martina had murmured something soft about being brave—about making Mama proud from heaven— del cielo. The phrase had floated through the memory like a ribbon. Back in the kitchen, Bryan blinked once and the memory released him. “She helped raise him until he was eight,” he said quietly, finishing the thought like a clause in a contract that mattered more than any signature. “She kept our house from becoming a place Paul couldn’t survive.” Harley’s expression softened. Not pity. Respect. “She sounds… incredible,” Harley said, and meant it. “I look forward to meeting her.” The words were innocently phrased—but they still made something prickle under Lilly’s skin, a small animal instinct that didn’t like how easily Harley spoke as if she belonged here already. Bryan offered a polite smile. Lilly returned to the document. “Scope of care,” Lilly said. “Assistance with daily needs, which may include dressing, meals, ensuring he consumes them, monitoring stress levels, supporting regulation, supporting bedtime routines, engaging in prescribed regression to help aid mental & physical limitations, coordination for appointments, transportation if needed, and household communication.” She paused, then added with controlled precision, “Responsibilities may change as needs change.” Harley nodded, the kind of nod that wasn’t agreement—it was hunger. A calling clicking into place. But it wasn’t pure excitement. Under it lived something sobering too: this wasn’t babysitting. This was a life in pieces being held together by routine. Bryan watched her reaction the way he’d watched her all day—reading her like evidence. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t flinch. She leaned in. And somehow, that made him feel safer…and more cautious at the exact same time. “I’ll need time to review this with my family,” Harley said. Bryan nodded. “We understand. We need a signed answer by Monday night—eleven p.m. before I leave for Tokyo.” Lilly’s voice didn’t waver. “The probation payout remains even if you terminate. Non-negotiable.” Harley’s eyes shimmered. A single tear slipped free, quiet and honest. She wiped it quickly, embarrassed by it, then straightened again. Inside her, gratitude wrestled with something else: the dizzying realization that someone had just funded her way of caring instead of undervaluing it. Lilly saw the tear and thought, sharply: Tears don’t prove goodness. They prove investment. As Harley gathered the folders, she noticed the small plush she’d brought—the one she’d forgotten earlier—and her smile returned, private and bright. She thought of how cute this would be tucked under Paul’s arm wearing just those thick, crinkly jungle print diapee’s.  Perfect for his first day. She kept the giraffe hidden for now. Bryan and Lilly asked if she wanted to say goodbye. Harley shook her head. “No. I’d rather say hi on the day I start. So he knows I’ll be there for him.” Bryan nodded and opened the back door for her.   Outside, Harley paused on the step. She didn’t cheer. Didn’t call anyone. She just stood there for one long breath, letting the magnitude settle into her bones. Then she laced up her skates and rolled into the evening—hopeful, composed, and carrying a future that felt too large to hold safely. Harley rolled one skate forward, then back again, testing balance. The familiar scrape of wheels on concrete steadied her. Motion always helped her think. She glanced back once, at the house. At the quiet certainty that Paul was inside, probably still in front of the television, maybe half-aware, maybe already drifting, his diapee’s would already need changing, his body would crave a cuddle and his paci would dangle from his outfit just begging to be slipped in between those pincahable cheeks. Harly felt the flutter, the excitement and intament thrill that only Paul could provide and she was closer than ever to live the dream she never once whispered out loud.   Her mouth curved—not a smile exactly. Something softer. Something proud. He settled, she thought. He made me a stinky, she exhaled He let me fed him like a hungry baby bird. He trusted the process, he trusted me. Harley pushed off, rolling down the sidewalk slowly at first, then faster as the street opened up. The air cooled against her cheeks. Streetlights blinked on one by one, casting long shadows that stretched and vanished beneath her wheels. Ahead of her, the street curved toward home—toward parents who would ask questions, toward paperwork that would need signatures, toward a future that suddenly had edges and deadlines. She needed to be careful. She saw her gaol in reach, and she wasn’t going to let anybody take this away from her. Inside, Bryan and Lilly stood in the kitchen, hands linked, their fingers tight. They didn’t say it out loud. Did we just make the best decision… or the worst one? Lilly finally inhaled and turned toward the living room. “TV time is over, honey,” she called gently. “Let’s all make dinner together.” Bryan followed, forcing lightness into his voice like a bandage. “Not it for peeling potatoes,” he said, pointing at Lilly with mock accusation. “I’ve already been through one negotiation today. I’m not entering another one with root vegetables.” And the house moved forward—one ordinary step at a time—into a future nobody fully trusted yet.