Other Fetishes

Day 45, and I decided to pull out the stent. It still wasn't causing any discomfort, but I just wasn't enjoying the constant leaking and wet diapers anymore. As much as I enjoy the feeling of being incontinent and diaper-dependent, at some point the excitement fades and is replaced by boredom and irritation. Suddenly, I start to wonder what I'm even doing it for, because I no longer see the point. Yet another confirmation that I shouldn't have the surgery. Every time my stent works even better and is even more comfortable, I think I can finally prove to myself that I'm ready for the surgery and lifelong incontinence, but apparently I'm not. Everything was optimal: comfort, drainage in all positions, the length of time I could wear it without cleaning, sleep quality—everything resembled the situation after surgery, and yet the annoying boredom eventually negates everything. I'm disappointed and happy at the same time.  

Man this chapter was awesome balancing Paul's big and little space and Savannahs reminiscing about him from the past. So so good. Each chapter is better then the one before and makes me beg for the next! Kudos 

To acheive nighttime wetting you can do the following training program. Every night before bed, drink a large glass of water. Set an alarm for a random time and put on a nice thick diaper. When the alarm goes off you wake, wet, and then go back to sleep. For best results have a set sleeping pattern, say 10pm - 6am every night. That way your body gets used to this being your established sleeping time. Setting an alarm to wake up and empty your bladder gets your body used to doing this every night. Changing the time on the alarm makes sure you don't train yourself to a specific point during the night. It will not be quick. It will take time but eventually you will wake up and already be wet.

Obviously math is not mathing today! Now, someone else needs to get with the program! 🙂

Chapter Forty-Eight: Savannah took the first step upstairs and felt it— that same bright, buzzing feeling she’d had in the kitchen, except sharper now, more focused. Anticipation. Not the kind she’d known at twenty-one—crushes, late-night texts, a romp in the sheets. This wasn’t heat behind her ribs or butterflies in her stomach. It was… lighter. Higher. Like someone had slipped a sunrise into her chest and it was trying to climb out through her throat. I shouldn’t be this excited, she told herself, one hand trailing along the polished railing. He wet the bed. He was hungover. He’s scared and exhausted and… And she could not wait to take care of him. Kim’s words floated back as she reached the landing. You believe it, he’ll accept it. She realized she was already standing in front of the nursery door, fingers curled around the cool brass knob before she even remembered deciding to walk there. On the other side, his voice came—small, tentative, floating through the wood like steam. “Mama Kim…?” Savannah’s breath caught. Not Mama, she thought, heart squeezing. Sissy. She drew in a steadying breath and turned the knob. A few minutes earlier, Paul had been certain he could stay like this forever. Face-down on the padded mat, arms sprawled out, he felt like he was lying on a warm, crinkly cloud. The faint rustle beneath him no longer scratched at his nerves the way it had that morning; it just… existed. Background noise. He pushed himself up on his elbows, pacifier bobbing lazily between his lips, and surveyed the empire he’d built from foam blocks: three uneven towers, one listing slightly to the side. In his head, they were skyscrapers downtown. He lifted his right hand, fingers curled into a stiff claw, and began stomping his “monster” across the mat, sound effects low and growly in his throat. When he reached the first building, muscle memory from some forgotten childhood game took over and his hand morphed into a chomping jaw—thumb snapping against fingers as he “bit” into the tower and scattered blocks in all directions. “Raaah,” he mumbled around the paci, half-hearted roar, half giggle. Warmth bloomed low in his belly. At first he thought it was just the echo of that giggle, the soft fizz of contentment—but then the warmth spread, different, heavier, seeping into the thick padding wrapped snugly around his hips. He froze. He’d wet himself standing. Sitting. In the middle of a nightmare. But lying on his stomach while fully awake, halfway between pretending his hand was a dinosaur and remembering he was supposed to be a grown man? That was new. His heartbeat picked up, a quick flutter under his ribs. He rolled awkwardly onto his side, then up into a sitting position, the mat dipping beneath him. The diaper squished faintly as he moved. He swallowed, stared down at his lap like it might confess something if he glared hard enough. What is happening to me? He lifted a hand, fingers trembling, about to poke the front of the padding just to prove to himself it was real. He stopped halfway. The fuzziness rolled back in—thick, heavy, almost sweet. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since… what? The granola in the car? A lifetime ago? The question of why sank out of reach, like a stone dropped into deep water. In its place was a simpler thought, soft and undeniable: Hungry. Need Kim. He didn’t think it through. He just let his head tip toward the door and called out, voice small and hopeful. “Mama Kim…?” The latch clicked. The door eased open. And instead of Kim, Savannah stood in the doorway. For a split second they both froze—him on the mat in nothing but his Ninja Turtles shirt and thick safari-printed padding, pacifier still in place, her framed in warm hallway light, the adult in the room. His face went red so fast it almost hurt.   Savannah’s first instinct was to flinch. To look away. To give him the privacy his dignity demanded. Her second instinct—stronger, clearer—was to do exactly what her mother had told her. She stepped inside and shut the door gently behind her. “Hey… hey, Paul,” she said, soft and steady, lowering herself to her knees in front of him so their eyes were level. “It’s okay, honey. Mama sent Sissy to come get you for some yummy lunch. How does that sound?” He stared at her like she’d just spoken another language. His hand crept unconsciously toward the hem of his shirt, tugging it down as far as it would stretch over the swollen front of the diaper. It didn’t help. He reached up, plucked the pacifier from his mouth, and managed, “S… Sissy?” The word came out wobbly, caught somewhere between suspicious teenager and confused toddler. Savannah’s mind flashed back to that morning in his bedroom—powder dusting the air, his wide eyes locked on hers while she coaxed him into stepping into the thick trainers. The way his attention sharpened when she’d dropped her voice low and said, Just keep lookin’ at Savvy, okay? She held up the pacifier between them like a delicate little truce flag. “Listen here, little mister,” she said, letting a hint of that soft Georgia honey seep into her tone, “for the next three days, you get to call me either ‘Sissy’ or ‘Savvy.’ Which one works better for you?” His eyes searched hers, still hazy but less fogged than they’d been in the car. His stomach twisted—mortification, hunger, something else tangled on top of each other. He didn’t want her to see him as more of a baby than she already did. If there was a version of this where he got to keep even a shred of cool, it had to live in the nickname. “Savvy,” he blurted, almost before he’d decided. Her heart melted. “Okay, Savvy it is.” She smiled, warm and proud like he’d just solved a puzzle. “Open up, sweetie.” He hesitated only a beat before parting his lips. She guided the pacifier back in gently, her fingers brushing the corner of his mouth. Then she slid her hands to his forearms and helped him stand. The padding shifted heavily between his thighs; he wobbled once, then found his balance with a soft crinkle. He turned instinctively toward the door, eager to escape the room, the mat, the feeling. Her palm met his chest, firm but gentle, stopping him. “Hold up, champ,” she murmured. He let out a tiny, muffled whine around the paci, eyes darting anywhere but her face. Savannah responded by rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades, the way she’d seen Kim do with William all the way to her. “It’s okay,” she hummed, voice dropping to that soothing cadence she used with nervous patients during practicum. “You’re alright. Just breathe with me, okay? In… and out…” Under her palm, she could feel him gradually unclench—shoulders lowering a fraction, jaw softening. But beneath that loosening, her hands could also feel something else: tension layered thick as concrete in the muscles along his spine, knots running like beads down his back. God, you’re carrying the whole world back here, aren’t you? she thought, fingers tracing lightly over a ridge of muscle. No wonder you cracked. An idea bloomed. Full body massage before bed, she catalogued silently. She was studying sports medicine as a minor she knew it was medically sound. Nightly. With that lavender baby lotion Mama keeps in the cabinet. Help him sleep. Help him trust touch again. She still had one more job to do.  She heard her own mental voice and almost laughed. There it is, she realized. The doctor and the caregiver, shaking hands. Aloud, she said, “Wow, Paul. You could really use a massage back here. So many stress knots.” He made a questioning sound behind the pacifier, but the words did their job—his attention shifted to the idea of sore muscles and away from what she did next. Keeping her left hand moving calmly up and down his back, Savannah let her right hand slide from his shoulder down past the hem of his shirt. She nudged the soft cotton up with her forearm and, with two fingers, pressed lightly across the front of the diaper. Warm. Heavy. Definitely wetter than before. Her heart did a strange flip—part concern, part something that felt almost like… triumph? Not at him, never at him, but at the fact that he’d trusted the safety she and her mother were building.  A small smile crept over her mouth before, she felt “powerful” she felt the heat, excitmenet and plessure she used to get grabbing a handful of John Handcok but now she enjoyed the padding instead.  She schooled it back to neutral trying not to show it. “You’ll be okay ‘til after lunch, buddy,” she said, straightening and smoothing his shirt back down. “Let’s go get some food in that tummy.” Savannah scooped up the stack of sippy cups from the shelf—two green, one blue—and cradled them in one arm. With her other hand, she reached for his. He hesitated only a fraction of a second before curling his fingers around hers. The walk down the hallway felt longer than it was, each soft crinkle from his padded steps echoing in the quiet space between them. Savannah’s chest swelled at every sound. To her, it was the audio of trust. To him, it was a reminder he couldn’t outrun. Paul kept the pacifier firmly in his mouth, more for self-preservation than comfort. It gave his teeth something to grip besides apologies. It gave his tongue something to do besides tell the truth: that he’d done this to himself. That he’d snuck out, gotten drunk, pissed the bed, and now here he was—toddling down a hall in cartoon-printed plastic, holding hands with the girl he’d once sworn he’d impress. You fucked around, his mind hissed. Now you’re finding out. The worst part wasn’t the padding. It wasn’t the baby talk. It wasn’t even the way his body sagged into the safety of it all. The worst part was how quickly his brain had surrendered. He’d always thought of himself as strong up here, even if the rest of him felt like a cosmic joke—a body that misfired, a bladder that couldn’t keep up. He’d prided himself on being clever, on using humor and performance to stay a step ahead. Now, in the span of a few hours, his thoughts had gone from I’m not a child to Mama Kim and Savvy and hungry and safe without his permission. Some dark, quiet part of him whispered that Lilly’s best friend might know him better than he knew himself. That she’d figured out how to hit him where it hurt and where it healed at the exact same time. He hated that thought. He also couldn’t quite make himself let go of Savannah’s hand. The scent hit him first at the bottom of the stairs—honey-hot spice, roasted garlic, something tangy and bright that made his empty stomach lurch and growl in protest. They stepped fully into the kitchen and living room, and his brain scrambled to process everything at once. The lake shimmered through the big bay window. Beyond it, the Atlantic stretched in a hazy blue promise. Under the window, tucked into the corner, sat a built-in padded banquette—a semi-circle of soft upholstery wrapping around a low, white table. In the highchair by the window, William sat in nothing but a T-shirt and a fresh disposable, feet swinging, cheeks smeared with yogurt. Kim stood beside him, spoon in one hand, bottle in the other. She turned as Savannah and Paul entered. For a heartbeat, she took in the image: her daughter with her chin lifted Kim could feel the energy and electricity of pride simply sparking all around, her hand firmly around Paul’s; Paul with his pacifier still in place, shirt riding up just enough to hint at the safari animals parading across the top of his sagging diaper. Kim’s heart swelled so fast she had to exhale. “There y’all are,” she said warmly. “Come on, sugar. Lunch is ready.” Savannah guided Paul over to the banquette. The cushion sighed beneath him as he sat, the diaper giving a very audible squish that made his ears burn. The table in front of him was set with a bright green segmented plastic plate empty—and two green sippy cups. Kim caught him tugging lightly on the edge of the plate, frowning when it wouldn’t budge. “It’s got suction cups on the bottom, sweetheart,” she explained from the stove finishing the prep, amused. “Keeps little—and big—boys from tossin’ their food everywhere.” Across from him, William giggled, apparently in full agreement with the need for such technology. Paul opened his mouth to protest that he had no intention of throwing anything, but William got there first. “BABY!” the toddler shouted, pointing directly at Paul’s chest. Heat slammed into Paul’s face. Reflex kicked in—he yanked the pacifier out of his mouth, as if exposing his teeth could somehow demonstrate his maturity. “Hey now,” Kim said firmly but kindly, wiping William’s chin. “He’s not a baby, sweet pea. This is Auntie Lilly’s boy. This is Paul—your new friend for the weekend. Say, ‘Hi, Paul.’” William’s eyes lit up. “YAY! New fwen! New Pawl!” He waved enthusiastically with a yogurt-coated hand, sending a splatter of white across Paul’s cheek. Kim and Savannah both burst into soft laughter. Paul managed a weak smile, wiping his cheek with the back of his wrist. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Hi.” Kim noted the moment, tucking it away. William’s diaper and Paul’s were nearly identical under their shirts. Two ages, same need. Different journeys. “Alright, let’s eat,” she declared, setting down platters and bowls. For the adults, she plated Nashville hot honey chicken sandwiches, slaw piled high, kale chips crisp and smoky on the side. For the “tykes,” big and small, chicken fingers cut into easy bites, kale chips, apple slaw glistening with bacon and vinegar, and that yogurt dip in the middle like treasure. Paul didn’t bother waiting for permission. Hunger overruled everything. He grabbed a piece of chicken, tried it plain, then dunked the next one into the yogurt sauce. The cool tang against the spice made his eyes close for a second. Oh. Oh, that was good. He alternated bites—chicken, then kale chip, then slaw, then a long pull from the sippy cup. The flow was slower than he wanted, but the cold liquid soothed his throat and his stomach didn’t complain. The pacifier lay forgotten beside his plate for the moment. Across the table, Kim and Savannah talked around them—about class schedules, about concert tickets Savannah had almost bought, about whether Wicked Part Two would actually live up to the first. Their voices washed over him like background music. Nobody commented on how fast he was eating. Nobody rushed him. Nobody tried to wipe his face. Kim did notice the streaks of yogurt gathering at the corner of his mouth, and the little stain creeping around his shirt collar. She said nothing… yet. She was far too pleased at the emptying plate in front of him. When he finally sat back, plate wiped clean by stray kale chips and single-minded determination, Kim couldn’t hide her smile. “Good job, sugar,” she said softly. “You cleaned that plate like a champ.” Savannah began clearing dishes. As she passed behind William’s chair, the toddler squinted at Paul’s shirt, finger extended. “Who dat, Mama?” he asked, poking at the faded Ninja Turtle graphic. Kim glanced over. “Well now, Paul, why don’t you tell William about the friends on your t-shirt, sweetheart? Tell him about the turtles.” Paul flushed again, but this time… it wasn’t all shame. There was something like… fondness underneath. “They’re, uh… the Ninja Turtles,” he said, glancing between William and Kim. “That’s Leonardo, he’s the leader. He wears blue. Raphael’s red, he’s kinda angry all the time. Donatello’s purple, he’s the smart one. And Michelangelo is orange. He just… likes pizza.” “Blue,” William repeated carefully. “Will likes blue. Leo.” His little chest puffed. “Will likes Leo. Can we watch, Mama? Can we watch da turtles?” Kim arched a brow and looked at Paul again, not as a toddler, but as the only resident expert in the room. “Well now, sounds like we got ourselves a brand new fan. Any idea how we can watch ’em, darlin’?” “If you have Paramount Plus, you should,” he said automatically, brain shifting gears, “uh… you should be able to stream the newer series.” “We got it,” Savannah called from the sink. “It’s where William watches Paw Patrol. And where we watch Billions and Mayor of Kingstown.” Paul perked up a little too quickly. “He’s seen Billions too,” he said, hoping the admission might bump him a rung up the maturity ladder. Both women paused. Kim’s smile turned wry. She walked over, picked up the pacifier from the table, and—without commenting on the show choice—gently popped it back between his lips. “Uh-huh,” she said mildly. “Well, we’ll circle back to that one later.” Savannah noted it silently, eyebrows lifting. Way too grown for him, she thought. We’ll… work on that. She reached for a pack of wipes, cleaned William’s sticky face, then leaned over and did the same for Paul, swiping yogurt and slaw residue from his cheeks. He didn’t fight it. The pacifier gave him an excuse not to. “Go play on the floor for a minute, boys,” she said, ruffling Paul’s hair almost the same way she did William’s. “We’ll be right in to start the show.” William bolted first, bare legs pumping as he scampered across the wood floor into the living room. Paul followed at a slower pace, back pressed to the couch once he sat, diaper cushioning him against the floor. William dumped a bin of Duplos, cars, and chunky action figures onto the rug with triumphant chaos. Paul stared at the pile. He recognized Superman. That’s all he recognized… the rest—all bright colors and talking animals—blended into a noisy blur. Paw Patrol, he guessed, unsure which was which. He picked up a random pup and turned it over in his hand, more to look busy than from any real plan. William noticed the hesitation, not the expression. “Oh no!” the toddler shouted suddenly, knocking the pup from Paul’s hand. “’Splosion! Chase go to space! SUPERMAN save him!” He snatched up a big plastic Superman and zoomed him through the air, making wooshing sounds as he brought the fallen toy back into Paul’s palm. “Saved!” William declared proudly. “All better now.” Paul stared at the toy, then at William, something in his chest loosening despite himself. Kim and Savannah came in just then—Kim carrying another bottle for William, Savannah two refilled sippy cups for Paul. He took them automatically, cheeks heating as the thick padding shifted again beneath him. Any more tea and I’m gonna leak, he thought grimly. Kim grabbed the TV remote. “Alright, my loves,” she said, serious now. “Before we start, ground rules. This show is rated TV-7. That means Mama Kim or Savvy watches it with you the first time. Together. If we don’t like what it’s showin’ little brains, we don’t watch it again. Understood?” William nodded solemnly. “’Stood, Mama.” Kim looked at Paul. He wanted to argue the idea that a rating could apply to him. The pacifier and the weight between his legs argued back for her. His ears burned. “I… I understand, Mama,” he said finally, the word catching on the way out. Kim gave him a soft nod and squeezed his shoulder, then hit play. (Author’s note the clip is 1:24, it’s advised to watch it in case you’ve never seen the 87 TMNT but more importantly for the memory it triggers for both Paul and Savannah.)   _TMNT_1987_Teenage_Mutant_Ninja_Turtles_V1.mp4 William was in from the first frame—bouncing in place, shouting at the screen, bottle dangling from his lips between exclamations. Every time a bad guy appeared he gasped like the stakes were life and death; every time a turtle landed a hit, he clapped so hard his bottle nearly flew from his hand. Kim barely registered the plot. Her gaze drifted between the two boys on the floor. Sometimes they looked almost identical—both leaning forward at the same angle, both eyes wide at the same moment, both laughing when a villain slipped in cement. Sometimes the differences screamed—one in a commercial diaper, one in a medical-grade safari print; one with baby curls, one with the hint of stubble around his jaw. But in the eyes—the eyes were the same. For Paul, the episode came through a different lens entirely. Every frame felt double-exposed—half present, half memory. He remembered his dad’s old DVD collection, the way the discs had tiny scratches from overuse. He remembered being three and curled on the couch under a fleece blanket while his father declared, “Now this is real Staurday morning television,” before pressing play. His dad had loved Michelangelo. “That’s me,” he’d said, tapping his own chest. “Goofy, always hungry, little bit of a show-off.” Paul had picked Raphael almost instantly. Hot-tempered, sarcastic, always feeling like the world was one bad decision away from falling apart. He laughed out loud when Raphael made a sarcastic crack about plutonium and gas stations. From the couch, Savannah’s head snapped up. She’d been scrolling absentmindedly, only half-listening to the dialogue—but that line snapped her straight back to Bryan and Lilly’s weeding, three years and a lifetime ago. Someone had asked Paul if he was excited to maybe be a big step-brother. “Absolutely,” he’d said without missing a beat. “Just as long as Lilly gets a thirty-day return policy if the baby doesn’t match her Louis Vuitton purse.” She’d snorted then and tried to hide it. She felt the same smile creeping up now. He’s always been funny, she thought, eyes softening as she watched him, shoulders relaxed, head tipped just slightly toward William like they were both catching the same wave of joy. When a rhino villain took a traffic light to the head and stumbled into a vat of cement, both boys erupted—William with delighted shrieks, Paul with that same bright laugh she’d heard at nineteen when he’d made that purse joke. Kim and Savannah traded a look over their heads. There he is, Savannah thought. Under all the padding and fear. He’s still in there. When the second episode ended, Kim hit pause. “Alright,” she announced, clapping her hands softly. “Nap time for Mama’s baby boy.” William’s whole body tensed. “Nooo nap,” he protested immediately, twisting away from the bottle. “No nap! Turtles more! WANT MORE TURTLES!” His volume climbed with each word, hands flailing, face scrunching. Within seconds, the meltdown was in full swing—heels kicking, fists thumping, tears popping hot and fast. Savannah moved without thinking. She slid closer to Paul, then reached forward and scooped William up, bracing his weight on her hip as she rocked him gently. His screams were loud in her ear, but she’d heard worse on pediatric rotations. “Hey, hey, hey,” she soothed, bouncing him slightly. “Listen, bug. If you take a nice nap, Mama said she’ll think about us findin’ you some turtles of your very own. But only if we rest these little eyes first. Okay?” “Turtles?” he hiccuped. “Turtles,” she promised, tapping his nose. It took another minute, but the storm finally broke. He sagged against her, sniffing once, then nodding. “Otay…” he murmured. “Nap… then turtles.” “Good choice,” she murmured, kissing his hairline. As she stood with William still in her arms, her eyes flicked to Paul. Now that he’d been sitting still for a while, the obvious couldn’t be ignored. The front of his diaper bulged more noticeably, the weight of it dragged slightly at his waistband when he shifted. Savannah swallowed, then let syrup coat her words, just like Kim had in the kitchen. “Mama,” she said lightly, “I think there’s a little boy who could use a fresh diapee… or at least a new pull-up.” Paul’s entire body flushed with heat, shame and something nameless mixing in his bloodstream. But the way she said it—teasing and gentle and matter-of-fact—made protesting feel… childish. Kim stood, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “No arguments here,” she said cheerfully, offering Paul a hand up. He took it. When he stood, the diaper sagged noticeably. Kim gave a soft chuckle. “Yep. Time to visit the changing station, sugar.” To her quiet delight, neither boy resisted as they were led to the stairs—Paul drifting to the right with Kim, William carried left in Savannah’s arms toward his own room.   In the nursery, Kim kept the mechanics of the change as tactful and discreet as before—no unnecessary commentary, no teasing, just practiced, gentle care. The important part came afterward. “All clean,” she said softly, disposing the last wipe into the well used diaper before balling it up. “Now, choice time, sweetheart.” He blinked up at her, pacifier back in place the second he laid down for the change, eyes still a little glassy from the show and the long morning. “You can have another diaper,” she said, holding up a fresh safari print, “or you can ask for a pair of your Step-Ins and plastic pants. Either way, you’ll be protected. But one’s littles-only, and one’s for in-between.” He didn’t hesitate long. “Step…Ins,” he murmured around the pacifier, barely above a whisper. There it was—the balance she’d hoped for. A little boy’s need and a young man’s pride, shaking hands in the middle. “Good choice,” Kim said, genuinely pleased. “Now, with Step-Ins, we’ve got some rules, alright?” He nodded, cheeks pink. “From now on, you’ll wear your Step-Ins and plastic pants when you’re not nappin’. Me or Savvy will ask you every so often if you need the bathroom”—she emphasized the word, grace extended—“and if you do, we’ll walk you there and wait outside the door. If you need help, you call. No shame in it. Understand?” More heat crawled up his neck, but he didn’t argue. He just nodded and sucked a little harder on the pacifier. She sprinkled powder, guided the soft trainers up his legs, smoothed the safari plastic pants into place, then tugged his green shorts back up over everything. The crinkle muted but didn’t vanish. “Alright,” she said, helping him sit up. “If you’d like, I think you’ve earned a little ‘big boy’ time.” The phrase made him flinch—part of him despised being measured against that standard at all. Another part, the part still echoing with Ninja Turtles jokes and law-school fantasies, grabbed at it like a lifeline. “Yes please,” he said quietly, removing the pacifier just long enough to make the words clear. Kim’s heart flipped. “Have you seen the library yet?” she asked, eyes lighting. He shook his head. “Oh, you are in for a treat.” She stood, set Paul’s pacifier down on the top self then snagged a folded towel from the dresser with her free hand. Taking his hand with the other, she led him out of the nursery and down the hall—still on the second floor, but away from the right wing of playrooms and bedrooms and toward the quieter, older part of the house. Two massive oak doors waited at the end of the corridor, carved with subtle scrollwork. Kim pushed one open. The library felt like stepping into another century. Built-in shelves lined the walls from floor almost to ceiling—mahogany stained deep and glossy, ladders on rails tucked neatly at intervals. The air smelled faintly of leather and paper and something herbal from the candle burned down low on the big partners’ desk at the far side of the room. Three black, studded-leather couches formed a loose triangle in the center around a low table. A rich green rug anchored the space, its pattern a subtle swirl rather than anything loud. “That’s Savvy’s daddy’s desk,” Kim said softly, nodding toward the imposing piece of furniture. “Little or big hands stay off, alright?” He nodded obediently. She unfolded the towel and spread it across one of the leather couches. “Just in case,” she said gently. No lecture. No threat. Just practical love. “Sit yourself right there,” she instructed. “You’ve got one hour of big-boy time with the grown-up shelves. After that, no more library until tomorrow.” He understood the deal: freedom, but with guardrails. He crossed to the shelves, fingers trailing along the spines. Thrillers, biographies, casebooks. His eyes caught a familiar name—Grisham—and his heart gave a tiny, unexpected kick. Dad loves these, he remembered. Said they’re trashy but fun. Said I’d like ’em when I’m older he did. “Older” now had apparently meant wearing a pair pull ups and plastic pants, but the sight still comforted him. He pulled down a copy of The Exchange, weight satisfying in his hand. The leather couch sighed beneath him as he settled onto the towel, the padding between his thighs a constant but less-threatening presence now. For the first time in days, he opened a hardcover just for himself. As the words pulled him in, his shoulders dropped, jaw unclenched. The house quieted around him. For the first time in a very long while, with a book in his hands and the faint crinkle under him drowned out by turning pages, Paul didn’t feel like he was drowning.