Sissy Room

It's a shame can only like this sentence once.

Its me.  Its always me 

My current stent, the one in the album, has been working great. And by that I mean it does not migrate when I am seated on a chair. BUUT, it does act like crimping a hose so when I stand up the floodgate opens and I can overwhelm my diaper. my current routine has been enjoy my stent throughout the day and then go to sleep. Before sleep, drink a TON of liquid as it is only when there is a sufficient amount of urine behind the stent will it dislodge when it has migrated into the bladder. An unfortunate, for me anyway, byproduct of forcing liquid out to pee out the stent is that if I have any fecal matter it will also be pushed out in that moment. All in all, though, still nice. then last night happened. Finally I managed to sleep through the night mostly on my back, and I felt in the morning something new. A gush of liquid, the stent was still in position 🥳! That meant no readjusting or anything, I was able to start my day incontinent. So so so nice.    will it happen again? Probably not in as much as it will not be a nightly thing , but it does mean I can experience some good nights with my stent on occasion. What a thankful way to wake up this Saturday after Thanksgiving.  I am thankful for all my stentiniers this season as well, @cathdiap, @UsuallyDiapered, @Hannah YMS, @dlnoir, @Loveable_guyto name a few. Grateful for you all and all the support/advice you all give!    

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Nashville looked scrubbed raw—brick fronts dark with damp, neon signs just starting to glow against a washed-out sky. At the same time Paul was being brought home by Kim, Lilly’s Mercedes rolled through the city on autopilot, wipers squeaking one halfhearted pass at a time. Lizbeth’s words still rang in her ears. You. Killed. Him. She swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the wheel until her knuckles paled. The cemetery dirt wasn’t on her shoes anymore, but it still felt like it clung somewhere she couldn’t scrub. Her phone buzzed in the console. She ignored it. The city blurred past: muraled walls, coffee shops spitting people out into the drizzle, tourists hunched under umbrellas. With every stoplight, her mind kept wanting to rewind—not just to the grave and Lizbeth’s fury, but further, to the version of herself Lizbeth still seemed to see. Twenty years old. Front door creaking open at 1:12 a.m. “Don’t bother sneakin’.” Lizbeth’s voice came from the living room, low and sharp. The foyer lamp clicked on, slicing the dark. Lilly froze mid-step, heels in one hand, silk blouse smelling like Hunter’s cologne and cheap bar smoke. July humidity pressed through the open window screens; cicadas screamed outside like an alarm. Lizbeth stood in the doorway, robe cinched tight, one hand around a mug. There was no sleep in her eyes—just exhaustion and something harder. “What time is it?” she asked. “Little after one,” Lilly muttered. “And you were where?” “With friends.” Lizbeth’s gaze swept over her: smeared lipstick, rumpled clothes, that faint thumbprint bruise at her jaw. “Friends,” she echoed. “Does this friend have a name, or are we still pretendin’ Hunter’s a group activity?” Lilly’s chest clenched. “You don’t know him.” “I know men who only call after midnight,” Lizbeth said, voice flat. “I know men who ‘forget’ their wallets and ask twenty-year-old girls to pick up tabs they can’t afford. I know men who like the shine, not the soul.” “You just don’t like him because he’s not safe and boring and church-approved,” Lilly snapped. “I don’t like him,” Lizbeth said, “because he treats you like stage dressing and you call it love.” The words landed clean and cruel. “I can handle it,” Lilly shot back, but it came out small. “You shouldn’t have to handle love like it’s a crisis,” Lizbeth said, hurt bleeding through the anger. “You come home lookin’ used up, not lit up. That’s not romance, baby. That’s erosion.” “Are you giving me an ultimatum?” Lilly demanded. “I’m askin’ you to choose you,” Lizbeth said. “Before he chooses somethin’ shinier.” Lilly’s eyes burned. “I am choosing me. You just hate the version.” She pushed past, heartbeat roaring in her ears. “You’ll see,” Lizbeth called after her, voice cracking. “He’ll leave when the shine wears off. And I’ll be here. But I WON’T be pickin’ up what he broke.”   The memory dissolved as her phone buzzed again. She snatched it up, ready to snap—and saw the name instead. Alana – Legendary Pictures PA Hey Lilly, Mr. Goldhawk asked me to pass this on. There’s a little something waiting for you at White’s Mercantile on 12th. He said you’d know it when you see it. 💛 Her heart stuttered. “Of course he did,” she whispered. The bell over the door chimed, bright and old-fashioned. Inside, White’s Mercantile smelled like cedar, coffee, and expensive candles—Southern nostalgia bottled and shelved. Wooden floors. Stacks of linen. Racks of denim. A Patsy Cline record crackled softly over hidden speakers. A clerk in a floral dress smiled from behind the counter. “Hey there. Holler if you need anything.” “Actually…” Lilly cleared her throat. “I think there’s a pickup for me? From Bryan Goldhawk?” Recognition lit the clerk’s face. “Mm-hm. Back room. Last door on the left.  Can’t spoil it.” Lilly’s pulse kicked into a higher gear. Her heels were too loud as she walked past displays of hand-thrown mugs and tea towels. The deeper into the store she went, the quieter it got. By the time she reached the last room, all she could hear was her own breathing and the soft scrape of her boot soles on the worn planks. The back room was smaller. Exposed brick, a farmhouse table stacked with coffee table books, a rack of jackets along one wall. Her heart stopped, then slammed back into motion. Then she heard herself say, a little hoarse, “Tell me you at least got me a candle.” He turned. Tokyo dust still clung to him in the tired lines around his eyes, but he looked like every steadiness she’d ever known—gray t-shirt, boots, that familiar cologne that made every version of home overlay for just a second. Bryan’s smile started slow and softened into something that hit her like relief. “Hey, Lil,” he said quietly. “Surprise.” Her mouth dropped open. The first thing she felt was shock—pure, electric. Then it cracked into a laugh that sounded too close to a sob. “You’re supposed to be in Tokyo,” she managed. “Yeah, well.” He shrugged. Whatever thread was holding her upright snapped.  In three strides she crashed into his chest. Bryan caught her in a clean, instinctive lift—hands bracing under her thighs as her legs wrapped around his waist, arms flung around his neck. The momentum spun them half a step; a stack of books wobbled on the table and steadied. She buried her face against his shoulder. He smelled like plane air, coffee, and the same skin she’d fallen for five years ago. His arms tightened, one palm spreading between her shoulder blades, holding her like she might blow away. “Easy, easy,” he murmured, but there was laughter in it. “Clerk’s gonna call HR.” She didn’t care. Her lips found his. The kiss wasn’t careful. It was weeks of fear and anger and homesickness compressed into one long, unedited collision—her mouth hungry, his answering like muscle memory. He tasted like mint gum and too much time apart. For a second the whole world shrank to the press of his chest and the way his hands flexed on her legs, grounding and giving in at the same time. He broke just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to hers, cheeks flushed. “We’re in a store,” he whispered, amused and a little embarrassed. “Let ’em watch,” she whispered back, and, grinning, nipped his lower lip—gentle, playful. He huffed out a laugh, a little dazed. “Lord, woman.” Slowly, he let her slide back down until her heels touched the floor again, his hands lingering at her waist as if afraid she’d vanish. “Hi,” she said, breathless. “Hi,” he echoed, eyes shining. Pride, joy, worry—all knotted together, all for her. “How are you even here?” she asked. “Studio’s private jet,” he said. “Left Tokyo Sunday morning at 5am so I could catch you around noon here. Told the studio I had a family emergency and needed two weeks. Told Alana to bait you with candles.” “You flew halfway around the world to meet me in a gift shop,” she said, voice wobbling again. “I flew halfway around the world,” he corrected gently, “to get my wife before she burns herself down and to walk back into this mess as a team. The gift shop just has better lighting.” Her eyes stung. For a beat, they just breathed. Then he asked, quietly, “How bad was it? With Lizbeth.” Lilly laughed once, humorless. “I don’t want to talk about her anymore.” Bryan’s jaw clenched. He didn’t argue. “What about you?” she asked. “How bad is it at home? Heard anything yet?” His features shifted, the producer face giving way to the father, the husband. “Test results are due back before the end of the week,” he said. “I’m scared, Lil. Not just for him but for me, for us. What if he has something? What if we can’t treat it, what if…” He let out a shaky breath. The sentence broke apart there. For a second, she just watched him—this man who could walk onto a set with two hundred crew, three cranes and a blown million-dollar day and still talk everyone down off the ledge. His hands, steady enough to hang off the side of a rig doing sixty miles an hour for the shot, were trembling now where they rested on the back of the chair. He tried to swallow it down, to put the steel back in his voice. “I keep thinking about all the things I missed. All the times he needed me softer and I was… elsewhere. On a plane. In a meeting. On some rooftop stunt making sure the sequence looked real while my actual kid was—” His voice thinned. “What if this is the bill coming due? What if I broke him by not being there?” Lilly stepped closer, the bell at the front of the store chiming faintly as someone else came and went in another life. “Hey,” she said quietly. “Look at me.” He did, reluctantly. His eyes were red-rimmed, not from jet lag this time. She shook her head, firm. “It’s not about deserve. It’s about show up. You got on a plane and came here instead of hiding behind a call sheet. You’re already doing it, Bry.” He laughed once, choked. “When did you get so good at this?” She smiled, and there was something new in it—less gloss, more grit but still doubt cast a shadow over her face and it was Lilly now leaning in towards Bryan.   “What if I can’t be what he needs?” she asked. “What if I’m just… wired wrong?” He studied her face like he was memorizing it. “You’re not wired wrong,” he said. “You still trust me with him?” she asked. “I trust you more when you’re this honest than when you’re pretending you’ve got it all branded,” he said. “And I’m not leaving you to do it alone this time. I did that after Rachel died. I dove into work and let other people raise my son while I chased projects. I’m not repeating that mistake.” She exhaled slowly, some of the panic in her ribcage loosening. “So what now?” she asked. “Now,” Bryan said, his tone shifting to something decisive, “we go home. Together. I’ve got two weeks off. We sit down with Paul, we listen, we apologize where we need to, we set new rules that aren’t just punishment or denial.” Lilly gave a wet, half-hysterical laugh. “You’re really good at this ‘plan’ thing, you know that?” He smiled crookedly. “I do it for a living. Figured I should try it at home, too.” “Okay,” she said finally. “Okay. Take me home, then.” He grinned, that boyish flare she’d fallen for sparking through the exhaustion. As they walked out of the store, the clerk gave them a knowing little smile but said nothing about the fact that Lilly’s lipstick was very obviously not intact anymore and Bryan looked slightly rumpled in that freshly kissed in the stockroom way. Outside, a light rain had started again, the drops fine and cool on Lilly’s cheeks. Bryan opened the door for her like he always did, hand resting lightly at the small of her back as she stepped out. His voice low and sure, “let’s go home and fix what we can.” She slid her hand into his.   The phone started buzzing before his brain did. It rattled on the nightstand in uneven little hops, the vibration skittering across the wood until it bumped into the lamp. Tuesday morning light bled in around the edges of the blinds, thin and pale. Paul floated up from sleep like he was being pulled through warm water—slow, heavy, reluctant. “Mmornin’… Mama Kim…” It came out thick and gurgled, consonants softened by silicone. The words hung in the air of his empty room, absurd and tender and completely unguarded. His adult brain snapped awake first. What did you just say? Heat flickered in his chest, the old instinct to flinch, to recoil from himself, to scrub that moment out of existence. But his body… didn’t tense. His shoulders stayed loose against the pillow. His jaw didn’t clamp. The shame spike he’d come to expect didn’t quite land. Instead, something else washed through him: a weird, deep relief, like his nervous system had been holding its breath all weekend and had finally, finally exhaled. Paul sighed, long and quiet, and reached up with deliberate care. He eased the pacifier from his mouth instead of yanking it free, set it gently on the nightstand beside his buzzing phone, then let his head fall back for just one more second. Okay. New day. Back on track. The phone kept shimmying. He let it. For once he didn’t jump like he’d been caught. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. The crinkle was different this morning—softer, muted by weight. And the cold hit him first: a clammy chill hugging his skin from front to back. He looked down. He could see it: the swollen padding pushing up; the cartoon jungle prints warped by spreading color; a huge wet patch that stretched from his crotch almost all the way to his lower back. The diaper wasn’t just damp; it was done. He hadn’t halfway wet in his sleep. He’d completely, thoroughly soaked it. For a split second his hands twitched toward his face, instinct ready: hide, hide, hide. But the wave of old humiliation never fully crested. The feeling that rose instead surprised him. Thank God I didn’t fight it. The thought arrived clear as a line of dialogue. If he’d gone to bed bare or just in a Step-In, the mattress would be ruined. Martina would know. Everyone would know. This way… yeah, okay, the plastic shell cradling him was heavy and ridiculous and objectively infantile—but his sheets were dry. His body had done what it needed to do without turning the night into a disaster. He sat there on the edge of the bed, fingers resting lightly on the front of the swollen diaper, and admitted another truth he would’ve denied out loud: The weekend had helped. Not just the baths or the bottles, not just Kim’s voice or Savannah’s hands fussing with his hair. The letting go had helped. Having permission, even for a little while, to stop holding every muscle and thought in a death grip. It had been… nice. Nice like a distraction, he told himself quickly. Nice like a weird, one-time vacation he’d never need again. His brain tripped over the word never and stalled. Never again? What would Savvy think if she were here right now? He pictured her in a flash—standing in his room, arms folded, ponytail swinging, that half-smile that always looked like she knew more than she was saying. “Look at you,” imaginary Savannah drawled, teasing but warm. “No Uh-Oh’s on the sheets, instead all of Paul’s pee-pee right where it belongs in his diapee.” A chill ran lightly down his spine, not fear this time but something shivery and wanting. For two seconds he let it sit there, the fantasy of her checking him, fussing, proud of him. Then he shut it down. “Get real,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s… way out of your league.” He peeled the tapes back with quick, competent motions, letting the swollen shell fall away from his hips with a damp, heavy sag. The cold air made him wince. He rolled the used diaper into itself and, without ceremony, dropped it into his bedroom trash can. It landed with a muffled thud.  The shower was hotter than normal, needed to try and start fresh this week. He pulled on a clean Step-In, the familiar snug hug around his waist, then hesitated. His gaze drifted to the trash can. The soaked Safari brief sat there like evidence, like a highlight reel of what his body could still do when it stopped asking permission. Responsibility, not fear, stood up inside him and cleared its throat. Plastic pants. Just today. Just in case. His hand moved almost automatically, fishing the clear, rustling shell from the drawer. He stepped into them, pulled them up over the Step-In until the elastic band settled high on his hips. Layers of protection. Not as thick as yesterday. Not nothing. Khaki pants came next—no skinnies today, not with the extra padding. Then a long-sleeve compression shirt that made his shoulders look more defined than he felt. Finally, from the back of his closet: the Florida Panthers jersey, bold blue and red, the Stanley Cup patch stitched proud on the sleeve. He’d never cared about hockey until the Panthers went on that insane run and he and Bryan stayed up way too late watching overtime after overtime. Bryan yelling at the TV, Paul yelling with him. Now the jersey felt like a promise—of next year’s tickets, of more games, of a future where he was still here. He tugged it on, smoothed it down over his waistband, and checked the mirror. For the first time in days, the boy looking back at him didn’t seem… fragile. He looked like someone trying. Someone trying for himself. Downstairs, he moved on autopilot—but a more organized autopilot than he’d had in weeks. He thumbed Mindy’s wet/dry tracker app back on, blinking at the little graph that had been flat lined since the weekend, then added a quiet digital note: woke up soaked, no leaks. He packed up last night’s leftover chicken and rice into a lunch container, took a quick picture of the plate from dinner and the container now, and texted it to Lilly with a simple caption: Still eating. Don’t freak. 😊 He reheated a stack of pancakes Martina had left under cling wrap, drowned them in berry sauce, and actually finished the plate. All of it. No picking. No half-hearted bites dumped into the trash. A burp punched up out of his chest, shameless and loud in the empty kitchen.   The auditorium always smelled faintly of dust, paint, and ambition. Harsh Florida light slanted through the high windows in strips, catching the floating powder of old set pieces and forgotten glitter. Onstage, tape marks crisscrossed the floor in neon lines: green for principals, blue for supporting, yellow for where Declan said “for the love of God, stand here or the light won’t hit you.” Today the stage felt more like a heartbeat than a place. Paul stood near center with his script open but mostly ignored in his hand, around him, the cast milled into position: Amber, hair pulled back in a loose Scout braid; Leo, their Atticus, with his tie already loosened; a dozen others settling onto imaginary balconies and benches. Declan paced in the front row with his usual disheveled professor look—Henley rolled to the elbows, scarf like he’d forgotten what country he was in, Irish lilt sharp as ever. “Right, so,” Declan clapped, the sound cracking off the rafters. “Act Two, courtroom. We are done with timid now, d’ye hear me? Stakes are through the roof, hearts thumpin’, nobody phones this in or I will die dramatically in this very seat.” Julia, small and sharp beside him in black jeans and a messy bun, snapped her gum and lifted her clipboard. “Positions for where we left off. Scout in the balcony, Jem beside her, Reverend on the other side. Atticus at the defense table. Jury, look bored and weighted. It’s Tuesday, we’re all tired. Perfect.” Paul took his place as Jem, shoulder-to-shoulder with Amber on the rickety balcony platform, his hand curled around the fake railing. The script pages under his thumb were soft at the corners from use. They didn’t feel like lines anymore; they felt like muscle memory. “Whenever you’re ready, darlin’,” Julia called to Amber, the New York in her voice softening only slightly. Amber drew in a breath and the room fell quiet. They hit one of the pivotal beats: the moment Jem is trying to explain the rules of the town, the quiet cruelty of it, to a younger sister who still believes the world is fair. Amber’s voice was small but steely as Scout, pointing down to the figure of Tom on the “stand.” “But Atticus said if they listened—” Paul cut across her with Jem’s frustration, threaded with something deeper. “It doesn’t matter what Atticus said,” he threw down, not yelling but forcing the air through his teeth, his own fear of the world bleeding into the edges. “They’ve already decided. They always decide before men like him open their mouths.” The words weren’t verbatim from the book—Declan had tweaked the script, made it rawer, more modern—but the emotion was the same. Paul let it ride him instead of fighting it: the injustice, the helplessness, the way kids get crushed under systems they didn’t build. Downstage, Leo lifted his head at the same time Declan did. “Better,” Declan muttered, more to himself than anyone. “D’ye feel that? That anger’s not just at Maycomb, lads and ladies—it’s at the whole rotten machine.” They moved into the balcony prayer with the Reverend—the moment after the verdict when Atticus walks out of the courtroom and the Black congregation stands in the balcony out of respect. Amber’s voice trembled just enough as Scout. “Miss Jean Louise,” their Reverend intoned behind them, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Stand up. Your father’s… doing something brave.” Paul didn’t have a line there. Jem doesn’t speak in that moment. But he didn’t stand there blank. He let his jaw work, let his eyes follow Leo’s slow walk across the stage with something like awe and horror braided together. He thought of Bryan in Tokyo, on rigs and sets, doing dangerous things to keep stories alive. He thought of the way his father had sounded on the phone—terrified and trying not to be. He let that live in his chest and show in his face. From the house, Julia whispered, “Holy shit,” under her breath, forgetting to keep it for her notes. They ran the sequence again, then shifted to the front porch scene late in the play—a quieter but just as crucial moment, Jem trying to make sense of how the world can be so deeply unfair and still keep turning. “I thought we were gonna win,” Paul said, softer now, sitting on the imaginary steps, elbows on his knees. No accent, just his own voice, pitched younger. “I had to think that. ’Cause if Atticus can’t fix it…” He trailed off, swallowing around the lump he let form in his throat. “If he can’t fix it, then maybe nobody can.” He looked out into the light, not at anyone in particular, but his eyes shone in the spill of the stage wash. It wasn’t just Jem talking about a system—it was Paul talking about bodies that betrayed you, about doctors and tests, about adults who tried and still couldn’t make it right. Silence held for a breath after the scene ended. Even Declan didn’t jump in right away. Then he stood up, clapped once, loud. “There we are now,” he crowed. “That’s the marrow, ye eejits. That’s what they hand over their hard-earned for.” He pointed at Paul with his pen. “Mr. Goldhawk, would ye ever leave a drop of talent for the rest of us, or is it all yours?” A ripple of laughter eased the tension. Paul felt his face flush, but not with the old embarrassed burn. This one felt… solid. Grounded. Like maybe he hadn’t been crazy all those years believing he could do this. Leo, their Atticus, shuffled his pages, brow furrowed. “I still feel like my closing is… flat,” he said. “Like I’m just preaching. Not… begging them.” Declan opened his mouth, but Paul’s hand went up before he could think to stop it. “Can I—” he started. “Just, um. Try something with him?” Declan leaned back in his seat, arms folding, a slow grin spreading. “On ye go so, coach,” he said. “I’ll be over here takin’ notes and sendin’ ye an invoice for me union dues.” A few people snickered. Paul hopped down off the platform, the slight bulk at his waist whispering under the khakis as he landed. He ignored it, nodded Leo toward the center, and moved him two steps left. “Stand here,” he said. “See that tape? When you hit this line—” he tapped the script lightly “—take half a step forward and drop your volume instead of raising it. Make ’em lean in. You’re not yelling at them. You’re… exhausted. You’re begging them to be better and you’re scared they won’t.” Leo blinked at him. “Where’d you learn that?” “Watching my dad,” Paul said before he could stop himself. “People listen more when you sound like you might break.” Declan’s eyebrows shot up. Julia scribbled something on her notepad, lips pinched to hide a smile. They ran the section again with the adjustment. It clicked. The whole room felt it. “Now you’re Atticus,” Declan called, pointing at Leo. “At long last, praise be.” Then to Paul: “And you, ye can’t have your name everywhere in the programme. I’m not sharin’ the director marquee with another, d’ye understand me at all?”   Laughter washed through the stage. Paul grinned, hands up in surrender. Amber watched from the balcony rail, script forgotten in her fingers. Something’s different, she realized, heart beating a little faster for reasons that had nothing to do with crushes. The shy, brittle boy who flinched at shadows felt farther away today. In his place was someone bolder, surer, still tender—but… fuller. Like he’d stepped into his own outline. She wasn’t the only one noticing. The cast was leaning toward him instead of around him. Declan was giving him space, not just notes. Where did this Paul come from? she wondered. And how do we keep him? They broke for ten, water bottles cracking open, bodies stretching. The hum of chatter rose. Amber hopped down from the balcony and threaded through to his side, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “Okay, hotshot,” she murmured. “Who are you and what did you do with my anxious scene partner?” He laughed, breathless and happy. “I had a weekend,” he said, which was technically the truth. “Guess I… needed it.” She was about to tease him again when it hit her: a faint, unmistakable crinkle as he shifted his weight; the soft ghost of baby powder in the air when he moved past her; and, underneath that, just the slightest metallic-sweet tang of wet. Her brain stuttered. Did he just…? Here? The part of her that was eighteen and merciless wanted to freak out. The part of her that was older than that—who’d watched him nearly fall apart on a beach years ago, who’d been told about the training pants and told to kept her mouth shut—moved faster. She bumped his shoulder again, a little harder, like she always did when he was spacing out.The jolt snapped him back into his body. Oh. There it was: the heavy pull at his hips, the warm cling where it hadn’t been five minutes ago, the telltale shift of fabric against plastic. He’d been so deep in Jem’s skin he hadn’t noticed his own nervous system doing what it did now when things got intense. His adult mind reared up. Seriously? In rehearsal? You’re nearly eighteen, not three. You, We, I can’t— The other voice, smaller but steadier, cut in. We were playing. We were good. No time for a potty break. Big deal. That calm was new. It didn’t erase the flush rising in his cheeks, but it kept him from spiraling. “I’ll be right back,” he told Amber, tone light. “Too much water.” She nodded, playing along. “Hurry. Declan’s gonna make us run that balcony again until we cry real tears.” As he walked offstage, she watched him go, eyes narrowing just a fraction. She didn’t know everything that was happening with him. But she knew enough to make a choice. For now, she’d keep his secrets exactly where she kept her own: tucked away, guarded, waiting for a moment when honesty would help instead of hurt. Paul’s feet knew the path before his brain did. Past the trophy case. Left at the faded mural. Down the side corridor students rarely used unless they were lost or late. Straight to the blue door. He pressed the intercom button with a finger that only trembled once. “Hey, Whitney?” he said, keeping his voice low even though no one was around. “It’s, um… Paul. Goldhawk. Could I… grab a change?” There was a tiny beat of silence, then Whitney’s voice crackled through, warm and bright. “Of course you can, sweetheart. Gimme sixty seconds.” Inside the Little Oaks daycare, Whitney smiled at the plastic drawers lining the back wall. The room around her hummed with controlled chaos—toddlers stacking blocks, a little one in the corner singing at a stuffed dog, an assistant coaxing a reluctant napper onto a mat. In her head, the Batman: The Animated Series theme cued up, jazzy and dramatic. She rolled her eyes at herself. “Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na…” she hummed under her breath as she moved. She opened the labeled cabinet, fingers finding the teal insert almost automatically now. The bin read PL in neat block letters. Not Paul G. Not Paul Goldhawk. Just two initials that could belong to anyone. She’d changed the labeling after that first day—after she’d had to lay him down and pretend like he was just another overgrown kid in need of care. Protecting his privacy felt like part of the job now. Whitney tugged a fresh Step-In from the adorable Tykables packaging, the pastel design of the bag making her snort softly. One of the newer assistants had caught sight of them last week and lit up. “Oh my God,” the girl had whispered, hand over her heart. “Are those for the new toddlers? These are so cute.” Whitney had smiled as gently as she could. “They’re for a student,” she’d said, firm but kind. The assistant had gone pink. “Oh. Sorry. I just—if they’re anything like the little ones’… I bet they look… really sweet.” “They look like safety,” Whitney had replied, tucking the package away. “That’s what matters.” Now she tucked the folded Step-In and the teal insert into a small neutral tote, checked the hallway through the side window, and slipped out. The interior red door opened to reveal Paul leaning against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying very hard to look like a guy just killing time between classes. He looked different today, she noticed. Less hunted. Tired, sure, but not brittle. His eyes met hers without flinching. “Hey, Whitney,” he said. “Thanks. Sorry for… bugging you again.” “You are never bugging me,” she said, pressing the tote into his hands. “You’re taking care of yourself. Big difference.” He exhaled, some tension draining out of his shoulders. He smiled, small but real. “Okay. Thanks.” As she shuts the door behind her, Whitney glanced up at the analog clock above the cubbies. 12:45 p.m. “Half the day down,” she murmured to herself. “You’ve got this, kid.”  Across town, at that exact same moment, another clock read 12:45. This one glowed in the lower right corner of a computer monitor on Paul’s desk, the blue digits reflected faintly in framed posters and half-dry scripts tacked to the wall. The room was empty of its owner. But not of his story. Two figures stood just inside the doorway, side by side in the stillness. Bryan’s shoulders filled the frame first, suit jacket traded for a worn Henley and jeans; Lilly, in a soft black turtleneck and dark jeans, stood close enough that their arms brushed. They weren’t looking at the computer. They were looking down. At the small bedroom trash can beside the bed. At the rolled, cartoon-printed Safari diaper sitting on top of the crumpled paper and yesterday’s Coke can. Jungle animals peeked out from the folds, their bright smiles warped by dried creases. For a long, suspended beat, neither of them said a word. The protective father who’d flown halfway around the world. The stepmother who’d bargained with herself into believing it was just “extra protection.” Both of them staring at proof that whatever had happened this weekend hadn’t stayed at Kim’s. It had followed their son home. And he’d used it.    

I hope you will post here whenever there's an update, cause the official story section that isn't in the forums doesn't have a way to get notified when there's an update posted, and not any ways to go directly to a new chapter.