Other Fetishes

@NjoNjo056 & @Wittlebabiboi it's a Thanksgiving Day bonus feast after all.......   Chapter Fifty-Four: Martina’s gentle footsteps somewhere in the kitchen. Paul blinked his eyes open, throat dry, body heavy, the faint ache along his lower ribs and abodmen reminding him of the test, the sedation, the way the world had dissolved into cotton and lullabies hours earlier. The relief of waking in his own bed lasted exactly three seconds, his mind snapped back to the sound. Crinkle. He froze. His hand slid beneath the sheet. Thick. Warm. Cushioned. A diaper. He swallowed hard, stomach dropping through the mattress. Even though he’d pieced together moments — Kim’s voice soothing him in recovery, the sippy cup against his lips, the fading warmth in the padding — waking to it here, in his own room, felt like falling through parallel realities. He pushed himself upright too quickly, wincing as the soreness flared. Before he could even breathe, the door cracked open. Martina slipped inside with a basket of folded laundry balanced on her hip. The sheets rustled. Paul yanked the blanket over himself in a frantic blur. Too late. She saw. She didn’t gasp. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. Instead, Martina crossed the room with that same quiet authority she’d had since he was small enough to reach her hip. She set the basket down gently, eyes softening as she took in his red face, his trembling hands clutching the blanket like it was armor. “Paulito…” she whispered, sitting at the edge of the bed. He stiffened. The shame crawled up his throat like barbed wire. “Please don’t—” he choked. Martina reached out slowly and pressed her palm to his cheek, thumb brushing away the tears he didn’t realize had started falling. “Mi cielo…” Her voice wrapped around him like a warm ribbon. “My little padded boy.” He inhaled sharply, chest shaking. “You have nothing — nada — to be embarrassed about.” Her tone wasn’t pity. It was memory. It was love. When she gathered him into her arms, he folded instantly, his forehead pressing into her shoulder. She held him like she had held him once before — years ago — when he was five and motherless and drowning in nightmares he had no words for. But before Paul could ask anything, before he could even breathe enough to start, Martina brushed his hair back. “Amber is downstairs,” she said gently. “She came to check on you. About the play.” Paul’s stomach plunged. As he jerked upright in panic — and the pacifier fell from his mouth. He hadn’t even realized he was sucking it. He stared at it in horror where it bounced once against the comforter. Martina stayed perfectly calm. “You mustn’t move so fast, corazón,” she murmured, steadying him as he nearly doubled over from the soreness. “Your body is tired. And stressed.” Her hand swept the blanket aside before he could stop her. The diaper gleamed white with his “happy” jungle prints dancing all around against his skin, swollen and warm and undeniable. He made a broken sound, half protest, half plea. Martina shook her head, firm but loving. “We will fix this, Paul.” She rose, crossed to his suitcase — already half-unpacked — and pulled one of the folded Step-Ins from the top of the pile. “But for today, you wear this. Doctor’s orders.” He clutched the edge of the bed with white knuckles. He didn’t want Amber to know. He didn’t want anyone to know. But there was no fighting Martina when she used that tone — the soft, immovable one stitched from decades of raising him. “Up,” she said gently. Paul obeyed. The change itself was quick — clinical almost — and blessedly silent except for the faint rip of tapes and the softer, less humiliating rustle of the Step-In sliding up his thighs. When it was done, she looked deep into his eyes, like she was peering back years of his soul. “Amber is your friend,” Martina said. “Not your judge.” He nodded, even though he didn’t believe it. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Ve,” she whispered. “Go on, mi corazón.” That was five minutes ago; he didn’t want to face the real world. If he was being honest with himself, he wanted to be back at Kim's. Where the world paused for quiet comfort and safe places to just play. He sighe,d reaching over and putting back on his HEAT jersey and jeans from that morning.   For Paul, every step felt like crossing a minefield — the soft whisper of the Step-In between his legs, the soreness in his core, the phantom memory of sedation-haze and lullabies threading through him with each breath. Voices drifted up from the living room. Amber’s light laugh. Martina’s warm reply. The clink of two mugs. He hesitated at the last stair — fingers gripping the banister hard enough to sting. “Paul?” Amber called. “Hey — you okay?” He forced his feet forward. Amber sat cross-legged on the couch, scripts spread across the coffee table, hair pulled into a messy bun that somehow made her look even prettier. She turned the moment she heard him, smile soft and bright— —until her eyes dipped, just for a second, to the waistband of his jeans. The Step-In peeked above the hem. Barely. But enough. Her smile didn’t fall. It changed. Softened. Deepened. “Oh… hey,” she said, rising slowly. “You look— you look tired. Come sit?” He opened his mouth to respond— but the world flickered. Just a blink. Just long enough to see her instead. Not Amber. Savannah. Sitting in Amber’s place on the couch, cross-legged, looking up at him with that caretaking half-smile. Her hand reaching out with a bottle. Her voice warm in his ear: “Come here, sweetheart. Sit with me. You look thirsty.” Paul blinked — hard. Amber reappeared. The room tilted back to normal. Heat roared up his neck. “Paul?” Amber asked, stepping closer. “You okay? You look a little— I don’t know — dizzy?” He forced a smile he didn’t feel. “Yeah. Just… tired. Long morning.” Amber sat beside him on the couch, closer than he expected. Her fingers brushed his wrist — light, grounding. “I was working on Act III blocking,” she said softly. “Thought maybe we could go over it together?” He nodded. But the moment she turned to grab the script, his eyes drifted downward — and he caught the faint bulge beneath his shirt again. The Step-In. The reminder. The humiliation. His mind fractured for a breath— Amber handing him a script… Savannah tying a bib around his neck… Amber asking about blocking… Savannah brushing his hair off his forehead… Amber smiling at him kindly… Savannah whispering: “That’s my good boy…” The images layered, blurred, overlapped until he wasn’t sure which version of himself he was supposed to be. He blinked again, swallowing back the tight ache in his chest. “You sure you’re okay?” she murmured. Paul nodded, even though the lie sat hot on his tongue. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m fine.” Amber held his gaze a second longer. Then she smiled softly and nudged the script toward him. “Alright then,” she said gently. “Let’s start here.” Paul forced his eyes to the page. But his mind was still half on the couch with Amber… and half somewhere else entirely —a soft blanket, a warm lap, a bottle tipped against his lips, and a girl with ocean-green eyes whispering his name in a way that made something inside him loosen. The spell was broken by Martina calling everyone for dinner. Relief as Amber got off the couch first and headed toward the kitchen, giving him time to collect not only his thoughts but his breath.   For Amber, she watched Paul lower himself onto the couch with careful, almost choreographed movements — the kind that signaled pain being hidden behind pride. His posture was stiff. His eyes were glassy. And his face… His face was doing that thing it always did when he didn’t want anyone to see he was hurting — tightening around the edges, like he was holding everything together with invisible dental floss. But it was the other thing — the thing she wasn’t supposed to see — that stole her breath for half a heartbeat. The faint puff of fabric beneath his shirt. A whisper of bulk. Just enough to confirm what she already knew. His Pull Up. Amber swallowed and forced her eyes back to his. She had promised herself she wouldn’t say anything. She wasn’t even sure which part of the truth she’d be revealing — that her mother had sat her down in the apartment after her first time back on the Goldhawk’s payroll. She was grateful for being trusted enough by her mother and felt a twinge of betrayal from Paul for not trusting her. But they’d hadn’t really been as close as they were, when he moved with his Dad when he was just 8, they grew up, lived separate lives and by the time he did come “home” there wasn’t much of it left. And Amber wasn’t sure if telling him would help him…or break him. “Hey,” she said softly, handing him the script again. “You sure you’re good to rehearse?” Paul nodded too quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he insisted. The lie trembled under his voice, but he clung to it. She could see the effort — the way he straightened his shoulders as if the performance of independence could become real. Amber’s chest tightened. Of course he wants to feel in control. Of course he wants to pretend nothing’s changed. She knew something about that. He flipped through the script pages, but his thumb hesitated every few lines as if he kept forgetting what scene they were even in. His pupils tracked too slowly. His breaths came uneven. Amber quietly angled her body, studying him with the measured eye of someone trying to decide whether to speak or stay silent. He’s not fully lucid. That much was obvious. The sedation after-effects softened his expressions, blurred his focus, and made him look… younger? No, not younger. It was vulnerability. Raw, unfiltered, unguarded vulnerability she wasn’t sure she deserved to see. Amber reached for her water bottle just to give her hands something to do. She needed a second to steady herself. Her emotions felt like a tangled necklace — old feelings, new worries, and something else she wasn’t ready to name tightening around each other. Should she tell him? Should she let him keep pretending? Would he hate her if she said she knew? Paul lifted the script, but his hand shook. A small tremor, barely noticeable — unless you were watching him like she was. She gently placed her hand over his. “Paul.” He stilled. Her voice softened, but her eyes were unflinchingly honest. “You don’t have to push yourself for me. We can take it slow.” His jaw tightened. “I’m good,” he insisted again. Amber exhaled through her nose. He was stubborn — he’d always been stubborn — but this was different. His stubbornness now felt fragile, holding together the last piece of dignity he thought he had left. Her thumb unconsciously stroked the back of his knuckles. Paul froze, then softened, leaning just a fraction closer. Amber swallowed hard. She could feel the truth rising in her throat — I know about the pull-ups — but saying it felt like crossing a line. A line he might never forgive her for. So instead she said: “You scared me Friday.” His eyes snapped to hers. “What? How?” Amber hesitated — then told a partial truth. “When Lilly said you’d gone missing, she called Mom late Friday” she whispered. “I thought— I don’t know what I thought. I just knew something was wrong.” Paul’s face flinched. Shame, regret, guilt — all blooming at once. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I really am. I didn’t mean to—” “I know,” Amber cut in quickly. “That’s why I’m here.” He blinked. Amber felt her heart thud. This wasn’t a script. This wasn’t a performance. This was the closest they’d been to honesty in years. Her fingers tightened around his hand. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” she murmured. “But I want you to know that I’m here for you if you wanted to talk.” They managed another five minutes of pretending to rehearse. Five minutes of half-lines, distracted glances, and soft silences that meant more than the words they weren’t saying. Amber felt something in her chest loosen. Maybe this was the right moment. Maybe she could ask— But before she could speak the words forming on her tongue— Then: “¡Niños! Dinner is ready!” Martina called from the kitchen, voice musical and warm. Paul jolted slightly, as if waking from a trance. Amber stood, smoothing her shirt, heart still pounding. “Come on,” she said gently. “Let’s go eat.” But as she stepped toward the kitchen, Paul didn’t move. She turned back. He was staring at her with an expression she couldn’t read — a mix of gratitude, fear, embarrassment, and something tender she didn’t dare assume was meant for her. The silence stretched. His breath caught. Then he followed her into the kitchen. And the elephant in the room followed, too — quiet, patient, waiting for its moment.   Chapter Fifty-Five: Steam curled up from a wide, shallow pan of arroz con pollo in the center of the table, saffron-tinted rice studded with green peas, strips of red pepper, and bone-in chicken thighs browned until the skin turned the color of caramel. To one side, a platter of tortilla española sat on a wooden board, thick wedges of egg, potato, and onion gleaming with olive oil. A bowl of ensalada de tomate y cebolla—tomatoes, purple onions, and cilantro glistening with vinaigrette—rested beside a dish of patatas bravas crowned with smoky paprika sauce. A smaller plate of glistening plátanos maduros added a dark, sweet perfume to the air. At the far end of the table, a glass dish of flan de coco waited on the counter, trembling faintly every time a cabinet door closed. Martina set down a basket of warm pan de agua, the cloth lining printed with faded strawberries. Her hair was tied back in a low bun, a few silver strands escaping to frame her face. She wore her oldest, softest house dress—sky blue with tiny white flowers—the one she always chose on nights she needed comfort as much as everyone else. “¡Bueno!” she announced, wiping her hands on a dish towel and looking at the two teenagers already seated. “We sit. We eat. No phones. No drama. Solo familia.” Paul sat in his usual chair by the window, the late afternoon light washing his face in pale gold. He still looked tired—like the day had pressed down on him from the inside—but there was a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there a weeks ago. The lines of constant defensiveness around his mouth had loosened; his shoulders, though careful, weren’t braced for impact. Amber sat to his right, across from Martina. She’d pulled her hair up into a loose knot, strands slipping free around her face. Her black top and jeans looked simple, but the eyeliner was precise enough to tell Martina she’d taken her time before coming over. Amber’s script journal lay closed beside her plate, pen tucked neatly into the spiral binding. Martina grabbed the wooden spoon from the arroz pan. “Alright, mis amores,” she said, tone bright and firm. “Hoy no quiero ver nada de ‘I’m not hungry’ or ‘Maybe later.’ You had a big day. Your body needs food.” She fixed Paul with a mock-stern look. “And you, mi niño, are going to clean your plate, ¿sí?” Paul felt his ears warm, but he managed a real smile. “Yes, Martina.” He meant it. He could feel his stomach rumbling—not with the tight, burnt-thread anxiety that had knotted it for months, but with something simpler: hunger. Honest, uncomplicated hunger. For the first time in a long time, the smell of food didn’t make him queasy. It made him… grateful. Amber watched the exchange with a small, private smile.She’d seen this before—Martina’s gentle dictatorship over the dinner table—but tonight the rhythm felt different. Less like a performance and more like a pattern slipping back into place. Family. Martina scooped a generous mound of arroz con pollo onto Paul’s plate, making sure he got a piece with meat and skin. “Más arroz,” she murmured. “You need strength.” Then she added a wedge of tortilla, a small pile of salad, and three plátanos maduros. Amber’s plate got only slightly smaller portions. Martina knew better than to pretend Amber didn’t have an appetite. The girl trained as hard as she rehearsed. “Gracias,” Amber said quietly as the food landed in front of her. “De nada, mi cielo,” Martina replied, the endearment slipping out naturally. She sat last, folding herself into her chair with a small sigh. Her knees ached more these days, a quiet reminder of years spent on her feet—cooking, cleaning, carrying other people’s children in her arms. She crossed herself quickly, as she always did, then bowed her head. “Gracias, Dios, por esta comida, por esta casa, por estos niños,” she whispered. “Y por un día más con ellos.” Paul and Amber echoed a soft “Amen,” almost in unison. For a few minutes, the only sound was cutlery, quiet chewing, and the soft scrape of plates. Paul took a cautious first bite of the arroz. The flavor flooded his mouth—saffron, garlic, chicken fat, sweet pepper—and something in his chest unclenched. It felt like stepping into a room he’d forgotten he loved. He took a second bite. Then a third. His body didn’t protest. No tightness, no twist of nausea, no immediate retreat. Just warmth. Martina watched him out of the corner of her eye, forcing herself not to hover. One of the hardest parts of mothering—she’d learned—was learning when to watch and when to pretend you weren’t watching. He’s eating, she thought. Más que la última vez. Más que antes de… todo esto. Amber tasted her first bite of tortilla and hummed. “Mama, this is insane,” she said, sincere. “Like five-star insane.” Martina waved her off with the spoon, though the compliment made her shoulders lift with pride. “Bah. It’s just potatoes and eggs. Anybody can make this.” “Yeah, but not like this anybody.” Amber popped a second forkful into her mouth. “I literally have friends whose idea of ‘cooking’ is Trader Joe’s microwavables. You spoil us.” Martina chuckled, cheeks rounding. “If I don’t feed you, who will?” Her eyes softened as they moved between Paul and Amber, seeing—not for the first time—the outline of a family that had formed in the cracks of something broken. Rachel gone. Bryan lost in work. Lilly orbiting like a planet that couldn’t decide whether she wanted to be warm or cold. And then there were these two—this boy who’d forgotten how to rest and this girl who’d built armor out of ambition. She worried about both of them. She loved both of them. She watched as Paul speared a piece of chicken, then another. He was halfway through his plate before he even realized it. His body had fallen into the rhythm: bite, chew, swallow, breathe. Bite, chew, swallow, breathe. An almost childlike rhythm. Out of nowhere, a memory drifted up—unbidden, vivid and it was from this afternoon. Martina had opened the door before Kim could knock twice. Kim stood there, one hand on Paul’s shoulder, the other balancing his small duffel. Paul leaned into her like every muscle in his body wanted to slide sideways and sleep where he stood. And Paul… Paul had returned with his pacifier still firmly in place. Not dangling. Not tucked into his shirt. Firmly. Gently. Thoughtlessly in place between his lips — the way a newborn keeps their thumb, instinctive and soft. Martina saw it the moment the door opened. His hair damp with sweat. His eyes half-lidded. His body swaying with sedation and exhaustion. And that pacifier — bright, round, impossible to miss — bobbing faintly as he sucked without knowing he was sucking. Kim held him by the shoulders, guiding him gently into the hallway, speaking in that low, soothing voice only mothers seemed to know how to summon. “Easy, sweetheart… just a few more steps…” Martina didn’t gasp. Didn’t startle. Didn’t even blink at the sight of the pacifier. Kim saw that—saw the complete lack of surprise—and paused, swallowing a breath. Their eyes met. A quiet, wordless confirmation passed between them: You’ve seen this before. Yes. Then we understand each other. Kim’s hand slid instinctively to the small of Paul’s back as she helped guide him toward his bedroom. His pacifier bobbed once, twice, as he fought gravity — still clinging to that instinctive, childlike comfort. Martina stepped aside. “Come in, come in,” she whispered. “Let’s get him to bed.” Together, they guided him to his room, each woman supporting one side of his sluggish, sedative-heavy body. His feet dragged a little. His head rolled once against Kim’s shoulder. His pacifier bobbed. Once inside his bedroom, Kim eased him to the edge of the mattress. “Paul, honey?” she whispered. “We’re just getting you ready for bed.” He nodded — slow, loose, like a child half-asleep — and mumbled around the pacifier. Martina’s heart tugged. They worked together with a fluidity that came from something older than words — two maternal figures meeting in a shared instinct. Kim bent first, gently guiding Paul’s hands upward. “Arms up for us, baby,” she coaxed. And he did — without thought, without tension — letting Kim peel off his jersey as if he were no older than William after a long day at the park. His jeans came next. Martina unbuttoned them with the simple, practiced grace of someone who had done this before — not yesterday, but another lifetime ago — when Paul was five and grieving and waking from night terrors too exhausted to make it to the bathroom. She slid the denim down his thighs, slow and respectful. And there it was: His Safari-print diaper. Bright. Padded. Unmistakable. In full display. Neither woman reacted with surprise. Martina simply nodded — something soft glowing in her eyes. Kim exhaled, quietly grateful she didn’t have to explain. Paul, bleary and drifting, didn’t seem to realize he’d been exposed. The pacifier bobbed again as he murmured lightly, head tipping. “Let’s get you comfy,” Martina whispered. Together they lifted him — one at the shoulders, one beneath his knees — and laid him down fully onto the bed. The diaper crinkled beneath him. Martina smoothed the front of it instinctively, a gesture so maternal, so rooted in memory, she didn’t even realize she was doing it. Kim caught the movement and felt an ache rise in her throat. “Martina,” she whispered. “You… don’t seem surprised.” Martina sat beside him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I, uh… I should tell you,” she said. “If he leaks or… if he has an accident tonight. It’s not just nerves. They gave him fluids with the meds. His body’s… processing a lot.” Kim’s phrasing was delicate, clinical, but her eyes were not. They were soft and brimming with something like apology. Martina glanced once more at the faint swell beneath Paul’s shorts. Then she shook her head. “No es la primera vez,” she said quietly. Kim blinked. “It’s not?” Martina smiled, small and sad. “When his mamá first died,” she began, eyes going somewhere far away, “he was four. Maybe five. He would wake up every night screaming, ‘Mami, mami, no te vayas.’ His little body could not hold everything he was feeling. So it came out… everywhere.” She lifted one hand, miming a tiny explosion, as if embarrassed by the word she wouldn’t say. “I tried waking him for the bathroom. I tried limiting water. Nada. The only thing that helped was…” Her hand rested gently on Paul’s thigh. “Putting him back in diapers….for a while.” Kim’s breath caught. Martina’s voice softened, wrapped in memory. “I would change him, put on his pajamas, and rock him in the chair until his little head would fall here—” she patted her shoulder— “kinda like a bambino again. Until his breathing was calm. Until he could let go without feeling like the world would disappear if he closed his eyes.” She looked at Kim then, searching her face. “It didn’t make him less of a boy. Menos hombre. It just gave his corazón time to rest. And when he was ready…” She shrugged gently. “He grew out of it.” For a long moment, Kim said nothing. Then she stepped closer, the lines around her mouth softening. “You did right by him,” she murmured. “You still are.” Martina’s lips quirked. “You, too.” Kim let out a quiet laugh. “Over the weekend, when he got… overwhelmed,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “I rocked him, too. Not in my lap. He’s too tall, and my knees would never forgive me.” She smiled at the image. She looked at Paul, already half-asleep between them. Martina felt her eyes sting. Kim squeezed Martina’s shoulder. “I called Lilly already,” she said. “Told her he did well. Told her he’s home.” Martina nodded. “Gracias.” Two women, from two different parts of his life — now aligned with unspoken understanding: He has always needed care. And he has never stopped deserving it. Paul shifted in the sheets, his pacifier making a soft click against his teeth. Martina leaned down and kissed the side of his temple. “Mi niño,” she murmured. “Descansa. You’re safe.” Kim pulled the blanket up over Paul’s bare chest and gently tucked it around him, one hand lingering near his cheek, thumb brushing the corner where the pacifier shield rested. “He’s home,” Kim whispered. “He’s safe,” Martina added. And between them — the sleeping boy, a Safari diaper peeking, pacifier bobbing faintly — breathed easier than he had in days. The memory faded as Martina came back to the present. At the table, Paul had almost cleared his plate. Almost. Only a few stray grains of rice clung to the porcelain, a smear of sauce at the edge, and a cherry tomato half-squashed near the rim. But when he reached for his water, a smear of sauce from his thumb streaked across his cheek without him noticing. Then another. And a dot on the tip of his nose. Amber looked up—and burst into sudden laughter. “Dude,” she said, giggling. “You look like you lost a fight with the ketchup bottle.” Paul frowned. “What?” She pointed, still laughing. “You’d be better off with a bib.” The words came out light, almost automatic—meant as a joke, a gentle jab. But the moment they left her mouth, Paul’s stomach dropped. Bibs. The weekend. The sleep sack. The Diapers clean & messy. Paul froze. The air around him tightened. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t at the kitchen table anymore. He was back at Kim’s, feeling the soft terry cloth tied around his neck, hearing her voice call him “sweetheart” while she wiped marinara off his chin. Heat surged up his spine, flooding his neck, his face. “Hey,” she said quickly, voice softening. “I was just—” Martina moved before she could finish. She stood, walked around the table with unhurried steps, and stopped at Paul’s side. Her fingers, warm and sure, curled under his chin as she tilted his face toward the light. She grabbed a folded napkin, dipped the corner into her water glass, and began gently wiping his cheeks. One swipe. Another. A careful dab at his nose. Amber watched, her earlier words echoing unpleasantly in her mind. You’d be better off with a bib. Had she meant it as a joke? Yes. Did it land like one? No. Seeing Martina clean Paul’s face like that—matter-of-fact, tender, unbothered—did something to her perspective. It cracked something open she hadn’t realized she’d sealed shut. He did look younger like this. Messy, exhausted, pliant under care. Her friends’ voices flickered through her memory—the ones who’d once called Paul “baby-faced senior,” the teasing tone barely hiding their dismissal. Amber looked at him now, cheeks slightly pink, eyes lowered as Martina wiped away the rest of the sauce. They were half right, she thought. He is baby-faced. But they didn’t see why. Martina cupped his cheek one last time, thumb stroking once across clean skin. “There,” she said. “All handsome again.” Paul huffed a shy, half-laugh. “Gracias,” he muttered. “De nada, mi niño.” He let the endearment land this time, not fighting it. Amber’s chest tightened. She’d been so busy trying to figure out whether she should tell him what she knew… Maybe her job wasn’t to expose his secret. Maybe it was to learn how to hold it better. Martina returned to her seat, taking one last bite of tortilla. “Alright,” she said, dabbing her mouth. “Two more things before I let you escape to your lines and your music and whatever nonsense TikTok is doing today.” Paul and Amber exchanged a look. Here comes, they both thought. “First,” Martina said, turning to Paul, “you did very well today. Mindy said so. Kim said so. And now I say so. You were brave. Even if you don’t feel like it.” Paul swallowed, throat thick. “Second…” Martina’s tone shifted, gentler, but firmer. “Lilly called while you were sleeping earlier. She’s driving back early tomorrow.” Paul’s fork stilled in his hand. “She’ll be home before you get back from school tomorrow,” Martina finished quietly. “So when you walk through that door, she’s already be waiting for you.” The room seemed to shrink by an inch. Amber’s gaze flicked to Paul. His eyes had gone distant again, but not unfocused this time. Sharp. Alert. Lilly. Home. Before he could brace himself. His heart kicked against his ribs. He thought of Kim’s voice calling her. Of Mindy’s calm patience. Of Savannah’s arms around him in the dark. And then he thought of Lilly—her ambition, her guilt, her fear—hurtling back toward all of them like a plane descending through turbulence. He took a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. Martina reached across the table and squeezed his hand. Amber did the same. For a heartbeat, the three of them were linked—hands, history, and something like hope connecting them in the warm, food-scented kitchen. Outside, the sky deepened toward evening. Inside, the plates were mostly empty. And somewhere far beyond the state line would be a car—driven by the woman whose absence had built this small, fragile peace… …and whose return might shatter it. Or remake it. Nobody knew yet. But for the moment, Martina saw a boy with a full stomach, clean cheeks, and two people holding his hands. And she allowed herself one quiet, stubborn thought: Whatever comes next… he won’t go through it hungry.

Well damn, if that is weird then call me a weirdo

Just wanted to say, I absolutely love this story and thank you for writing it! Will there be any more or is it Subscribestar exclusive? 😇

I have said it before, but I'll gladly say it again. This site and community had given me an amazing opportunity and adventure. I am so thankful to be not only a part of it, but be at a point I can give even more back to the community.  It's sometimes hard for me to share this excitement without sounding vapid or self centered or something, or at least worried that I will sound like that. I  have been thanked by so many friends here for the work I do as apart of the team. That means the world to me because it means im doing that something right.  Since my time here I have been inspired to embrace this side a little more but also understand for me at least, the balance of it in my life that is so important.  I have worked on some abdl music, currently a story, and a comic now that all has to do with ABDL. I do it proudly, and 10 years or even 5 years ago I probably wouldn't have been so comfortable with those ideas. This place has been such an adventure for me and I am looking forward to continuing here for a long while. Thanks to so many I have met on this adventure who have helped me with all of this. From finding out more about who I am, to Inspiring me to be even better. Truly, I am touched to have had this incredible opportunity thus far and look forward to continuing on! This whole place is about making us feel like we belong to something...and I truly feel like I do. 💛

Bake some pies.