Trading Post

It depends on whether or not I wanted to sleep with one open that night....  😂🤣😆

Chapter One Hundred & Nine: Part 2 The sound hit Paul first. Not voices exactly—layers of them. Laughter overlapping with instructions. The faint clatter of equipment being set down. A polite but busy energy that lived somewhere between a kitchen and a studio, between home and performance.   Paul reached the bottom of the stairs and slowed without meaning to.   The living room had been transformed. Lights stood on slim black legs like watchful insects, their panels diffused, soft but powerful. A reflector leaned against the wall near the windows. Cables were taped neatly along the floor, careful not to scar the house. Martina stood near the island, already radiant—animated hands, relaxed posture, confidence that came from knowing exactly what she was about to do and why.   But it was Lilly who drew the eye. She wore confidence like a second skin today. Her long blonde hair was braided into a single, elegant plait that fell over one shoulder—intentional, controlled, beautiful without trying too hard. A black French beret sat low and angled just enough to feel editorial rather than precious. Her outfit matched the role she was inhabiting: part creative director, part mother, entirely in command.   Lilly spotted Paul at the foot of the stairs before anyone else did.   Her attention shifted immediately—not abruptly, not theatrically—but with the smooth precision of someone used to tracking multiple realities at once. She finished a sentence, tapped her tablet once, then turned toward him with a smile that was both professional and unmistakably personal.   “Paul,” she said, beckoning him over with two fingers. “C’mere a sec, baby.”   He crossed the room, pulse ticking louder with every step.   “This,” Lilly continued, resting a hand lightly at the center of his back—not guiding, just grounding, “is Hilary. She’s the one I told you about. She helps make sure all of this”—a small, encompassing gesture toward the lights, the crew, the barely contained momentum—“actually works.”   Then, without pause, without qualifiers or hesitation, she added warmly: “And Hilary, this is my son, Paul.” Not stepson. Not clarification. Not explanation.   Son.   The word landed with a quiet finality that made Paul’s chest tighten before he could stop it.   Hilary turned fully toward him. She was standing near the far end of the room, a leather portfolio tucked against her side, her phone balanced easily in her other hand. Mid-thirties, maybe a year or two either way. Dark brown hair pulled back into a low, practical ponytail that still managed to look intentional. Her suit wasn’t flashy—soft gray, tailored well—but the blouse underneath was a warmer tone, humanizing the lines. She had the build of someone who took care of herself without turning it into a performance: average height, grounded stance, a softness at the hips that read more real than polished.   Her face held an easy authority.   Brown eyes. Observant. Kind—but not naïve.   There was something distinctly Midwestern in her cadence when she spoke again, that Minnesota-adjacent way of choosing words carefully, of smoothing edges instead of sharpening them. She carried herself like a woman who had learned how to be listened to in rooms that weren’t always inclined to listen. And yet—there was an unmistakable warmth there too. The kind of warmth that felt like a favorite aunt leaning in during a crowded holiday dinner and asking, quietly, “You okay, sweetheart?” without making it a scene.   Paul offered his hand automatically.   She took it—firm, confident—and then, almost as an afterthought, her other hand came in to give his a gentle tap, sealing the greeting. The gesture was subtle but intimate, an acknowledgment layered beneath the formality.   “Well,” Hilary said, her voice warm with that faint Minnesota lilt, edges rounded instead of sharp, “it’s really nice to finally meet you, Paul.”   She leaned in then—not lingering, not crowding—and pulled him into a quick, meaningful hug. It was brief, well-measured. No babying. No fuss. Just a moment of contact that said, "I see you." I’m glad you’re here.   Paul exhaled without realizing he’d been holding his breath. Hilary smiled at Paul again, just a touch warmer now, like she’d decided she liked him.   “You know,” she said, that gentle Minnesota roundness softening her consonants, “Lilly’s told me so much about you.”   Paul felt the words land—and somehow didn’t flinch. Instead, he lifted an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging up despite the tightness in his chest.   “Oh,” he said dryly, “I certainly hope not.”   For half a second, the room held still.   Then Hilary let out a quiet laugh—surprised, genuine. Not loud enough to draw attention, just enough to say well played. Lilly glanced at him sideways, a smile threatening despite herself.   Paul pressed on, emboldened by the moment. “And honestly,” he added, nodding toward Hilary, “anyone who works with her as much as you do must’ve been a saint in a previous life.”   Hilary’s laugh came easier this time. “Oh honey,” she said, shaking her head, “if that were true, I’d have better knees.”   Lilly reached out then—gentle, automatic—and gave Paul a light pat on his padded behind sharply, the kind that lived squarely in the language of ‘mommy and son’.   “Watch your tone, mister,” she murmured, amused but firm.   Paul opened his mouth to reply— —and froze. The clearest crinkle answered for him. It wasn’t a polite whisper but nearly a scream. But both of them heard it.   Lilly’s smile softened instantly, her eyes flicking to his face with a quiet apology that said I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Paul’s wit evaporated in a breath. His shoulders went still, his voice disappearing somewhere behind his ribs.   Hilary noticed.   Not the way people stare—but the way professionals notice shifts in air pressure. She didn’t look down. Didn’t look at Paul at all. Instead, she turned smoothly back to Lilly, already lifting a hand toward the set.   “Hey,” she said easily, that same soft Midwestern cadence, “do you agree with the lighting nearest the grill top, or do you want it feathered just a bit more? I’m worried it’s pulling focus.”   The moment passed. Just like that.   Lilly exhaled, grateful, and stepped back into director mode. Paul swallowed, steadied himself, and stayed where he was—silent now, but still standing. She adjusted a light with a nod. Leaned in to clarify a framing choice. Checked the angle on the monitor, then smiled, satisfied. Paul watched her with something close to awe. This wasn’t the Lilly who hovered at bedsides or negotiated schedules around doctors’ appointments. This was the Lilly who built things. Who made space and then decided what would live inside it.   His tracker buzzed faintly against his hip. Yellow again. Not danger. Just… pressure. Paul shifted his stance and leaned back against the wall, trying to make himself smaller without disappearing. He told himself he was just an observer. Just a witness to something beautiful happening in front of him. The kitchen didn’t start intimidating. It became that way slowly—through anticipation, through the quiet pressure of being watched, through the invisible weight of translation. Paul felt it even before Martina did, felt it like a low hum in his chest as the ingredients were laid out with care that bordered on reverence. From his seat at the edge of the living room—close enough to help if asked, far enough to stay invisible—Paul watched   Martina pause. Not freeze. Pause.   Her hands hovered over the counter, fingers slightly curled, as though they were waiting for permission to move. The quesabirria spread was beautiful in the way only lived-in food ever was: the birria broth dark and glossy, breathing out warmth and spice; the shredded meat waiting patiently to meet heat; tortillas stacked like they knew they were about to matter. Cheese sat off to the side, pale and unassuming, hiding the drama it would soon deliver. Beside it all, the empanada filling looked almost celebratory—roasted sweet potato glowing, onions caramelized to near sweetness, bell peppers slick with oil, zucchini still firm enough to push back, corn bright, black beans grounding the whole thing. Cumin and smoked paprika hung in the air, garlic softened by heat, lime catching the back of Paul’s throat when he inhaled.   It smelled like belonging. Martina exhaled. Paul recognized that breath instantly. He’d been living inside it for weeks.   “This isn’t the same,” Martina said quietly, more to the room than to anyone in it. “Cooking for family… and cooking for—” She gestured vaguely, toward the lights, the cameras, the idea of strangers. “—this.”   Paul’s fingers curled against his knee.   He knew that fear. It wasn’t about failure. It was about exposure. About taking something that made sense in your hands and hoping it still made sense once translated. Lilly stepped in—not abruptly, not with authority first, but with awareness. Paul noticed how she didn’t correct Martina, didn’t rush her forward. She closed the distance and rested her hand lightly at Martina’s elbow, grounding without claiming.   “Before we roll,” Lilly said gently, “let’s make sure you feel good.”   Her voice was steady, director-clean, but there was warmth under it. She nodded toward the makeup kit like it was no big deal, like this was just another part of the process. Paul blinked—he’d forgotten, sometimes, how many versions of Lilly existed at once. She adjusted the ring light herself, not calling attention to it, just softening the shadows. Then she picked up a brush, movements practiced, economical. She dabbed concealer beneath Martina’s eyes, blended warmth into her cheeks, reduced shine without erasing expression.   “This isn’t about changing you,” Lilly said quietly. “It’s about letting people see you without distraction.”   Martina swallowed.   “Mi comunidad,” she said, voice low but certain. “They deserve to be seen right.”     Something loosened in Paul’s chest. He watched Lilly work—not hovering, not dominating, just supporting. This wasn’t the Lilly who managed his changes or scheduled his day down to the minute. This was the Lilly who understood what it meant to carry someone else’s story responsibly.  Hilary’s presence anchored the edges of the room. She didn’t intrude, didn’t perform authority—she radiated it. Her eyes tracked everything: framing, light spill, pacing. When she spoke, her words landed with that faint Minnesotan roundness, calm and capable.   “Alright,” Hilary said, headset resting against her collarbone, “we let the food breathe. No rushing. If something goes sideways, that’s story. Not failure.”   Martina nodded, shoulders settling.   Cameras rolled.    And somehow, without Paul noticing the exact moment, the room shifted. Martina turned toward the lens—not polished, not rehearsed. Just present.   “Hoy vamos a cocinar algo que se comparte,” she said, her smile real. Today we’re cooking something meant to be shared.   Paul felt himself lean forward without meaning to.   She talked about birria not like a recipe, but like a memory—how it shows up when people are tired, when days are long, when you need to feed more than hunger. She spoke about quesabirria tacos as something eaten standing up, dipping tortillas into broth, laughing with hands that didn’t stay clean.   When the meat hit the griddle, the sizzle answered her like punctuation. Paul’s mouth watered—but more than that, he felt his shoulders drop.   Martina’s hands steadied as she spoke. Not stopped—just gentler now, more deliberate. She lifted the lid from the pot and let the steam roll upward, carrying with it the deep, layered scent of chilies and spice. For a moment, she didn’t speak.   The camera stayed with her.   Paul felt the shift before the words arrived. The air thickened—not with tension, but with memory. The kind that didn’t ask permission.   “You know,” Martina began, voice warm but quieter now, “there are dishes you make when things are good… and dishes you make when everything feels broken.”   She glanced up, just briefly, as if checking whether she could keep going.   “This one,” she said, gesturing to the pot, “this one saved us once.”   Paul’s chest tightened.   Martina smiled faintly, eyes shining. “There was a family I loved and still love very much,” she continued, careful with her phrasing. “A father and a son. They lost their wife… their mother.” Her voice wavered—not enough to stop, just enough to tell the truth. “And the house felt empty in a way that scared me.”   Paul’s throat closed.   Martina stirred slowly, spoon scraping the bottom of the pot in a soft, grounding rhythm. “I didn’t know what to say to them. Words felt too small. So I cooked.” A breath. “I brought this. And we sat together. And we didn’t fix anything.” She smiled through a shimmer of tears. “But for one night, the light came back on.”   Paul blinked hard.   He hadn’t expected to be seen. Not like this. Not without being named. A tear slid free before he could stop it, tracing down the bridge of his nose. He didn’t wipe it away. He didn’t need to. No one rushed him. Lilly didn’t turn. Hilary didn’t cut. Martina dabbed at her own eye with the heel of her hand and laughed softly.   “Ay, perdón,” she murmured. “Food does that to me.”   She straightened then—shoulders back, energy shifting without erasing what had just passed.   “But food isn’t only for surviving,” Martina said, brightness returning like sunrise after rain. “It’s for celebrating too.”   Paul felt the turn coming. It landed anyway.   “When my daughter came home with her ring,” Martina said, pride blooming openly now, “this is what we made. This exact dish.” She laughed, fuller this time. “We cooked until two in the morning. Music loud. Everyone talking at once. Tortillas everywhere.”   Her smile widened. “We dipped and laughed and cried and said, this is how we mark joy. This is how we tell life, yes—keep going.”   Paul’s breath hitched again.   The word daughter pressed somewhere tender. His jaw tightened, just a flicker—so fast it might’ve been missed by anyone not watching him closely. The pain was quick, sharp, familiar. A reminder of what celebration used to mean. Of what it still might.   Martina lifted a tortilla, dipped it into the broth, held it up to the camera with a grin. “So whether you are broken,” she said, “or whether you are celebrating—this food meets you there.”   The sizzle returned. The rhythm resumed.   She moved to the empanadas, explaining the vegetables with pride. “Esto es para todos,” she said. This is for everyone. Comfort without excess. Food that met people where they were.   Paul glanced at Lilly. She hadn’t interrupted once.   She cued softly, adjusted angles, asked questions that expanded Martina instead of correcting her. Paul watched Lilly watch Martina, and something in his understanding shifted. This version of Lilly wasn’t intimidating—not because she was smaller, but because she was generous.   Would it really be so bad, Paul wondered, to let her bring him into something like this? Not as a prop. Not as a problem to manage. But as a person with something worth framing.   By the time the last empanada slid into frame, golden and whole, the room felt lighter. Like something had landed where it belonged. Hilary nodded once, satisfied.   “That,” she said, “is your pilot.”   Paul exhaled.   He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. And somewhere between the steam, the stories, and Lilly’s quiet confidence, a thought took root—small, dangerous, hopeful:   Maybe being seen didn’t have to mean being exposed. Maybe… it could mean being held in the right frame. Applause came first—soft, genuine, a little surprised at itself. Frank the cameraman clapped with the flat of his palms, a grin breaking through his usual reserve. Chad the sound tech, followed, nodding once in approval as he joined in. Hilary’s applause was immediate and enthusiastic, the kind that carried warmth rather than volume. Lilly’s hands came together last—not because she was hesitant, but because she was watching Martina’s face as it happened. Martina blinked, startled.   For a half second she looked like she didn’t know what to do with it—then she laughed, pressing a hand to her chest, shoulders lifting as if she’d just exhaled something she’d been holding since the first camera roll.   “Gracias,” she said softly. “Thank you.” “Okay,” Martina said, already moving again, warmth snapping back into place like muscle memory. “Enough watching me talk. You all eat.”   What followed felt less like a break and more like a shift in gravity. The kitchen transformed. Four sheet pans were slid onto the island and counter—quesabirria tacos stacked generously, tortillas crisped and glossy with fat, cheese melted into that perfect pull that promised both comfort and indulgence. Beside them, rows of baked empanadas—golden, blistered just enough to show they’d been loved—steam escaping when the first one cracked open to reveal the roasted vegetable filling inside.   Paper plates appeared. Chilled sparkling water bottles clinked softly as they were set down.   “Frank, Chad—first dibs,” Lilly said, stepping aside.   Neither man argued.   Frank took two tacos without ceremony, already reaching for the consommé cup. Chad opted for an empanada first, nodding once after the initial bite like he was mentally filing it under worth the drive. Paul had met both of them before—on other shoots, other kitchens, other days where he’d hovered at the edges. Nice guys. Quiet. Professional. That held true now. They migrated naturally to the breakfast nook, settling onto the long wooden bench that felt strangely bare without the dining table nearby. They ate with focus, murmuring occasional approvals but otherwise letting the food speak for itself.   Hilary, Lilly, and Martina clustered at the island, iPads already in hand. Hilary scrubbed back through footage with practiced ease. “Okay—this moment right here,” she said, tapping the screen. “That pause before you lift the tortilla? That stays.”   Lilly leaned in, braid falling forward over her shoulder, eyes sharp but not harsh. “We’ll tighten the opening, but I don’t want to lose her pacing. It’s… honest.”   Martina hovered between them, listening, absorbing, nodding—equal parts creator and student, ambition glowing quietly beneath her ease.   Paul drifted. Not away—just out of the center.   He loaded his own plate with care: two tacos this time, folded tight so nothing would spill, and another empanada because his body was plainly asking for it now. Hunger without panic. Fuel, not fear.   The microwave clock caught his eye as he passed.   11:55 a.m.   Nearly two hours. He registered the time not with stress, but with a kind of stunned respect—for his body, for his focus, for the fact that he was still upright. By the time he finished his first plate, the vegetables alone had him feeling full in a way that wasn’t heavy but complete. Still, he went back for seconds—two more empanadas disappearing before he realized he’d already reached for them.   And with that fullness came awareness. Not shame—just information.   The quiet, familiar heaviness beneath his jeans. The subtle resistance when he shifted his weight. The booster pad Lilly had insisted on earlier had done exactly what she said it would. No urgency. No panic. Just… saturation.   Paul exhaled. He took his plate outside. The backyard was quieter than the kitchen had been—filtered light cutting through the pergola, a breeze moving the leaves overhead just enough to be heard. He sat down carefully, letting the chair take his weight, letting the stillness settle.For the first time since the crew arrived, Paul felt like he could breathe all the way down into his lungs.   He ate slower out here. Not because he had to—but because he could.   The weight beneath his jeans was noticeable, yes. Unavoidable. But it wasn’t a crisis. It wasn’t even uncomfortable yet. Just… there. Managed. Contained. He leaned back, plate balanced on his knee, listening to the muffled sounds of laughter and voices drifting through the open door behind him. Chapter One Hundred & Nine: Part 3 The kitchen had been returned to itself.The lights were gone. The cords coiled and tucked away. The counters wiped clean until they gleamed faintly, as if nothing extraordinary had happened there at all. Only the smell lingered—warm spices, citrus oil, something slow-cooked and patient—like embers refusing to die even after the fire had been smothered.   Lilly sat on the edge of the island, one heel hooked lazily around the rung below, a tall glass of iced tea sweating quietly beside her. The condensation slid down the glass in uneven trails, catching the afternoon light before pooling at the base like something trying to escape.   In front of her lay a single sheet of thick, cream-colored letterhead.   Custom. Heavy. Purposeful.   A delicate seashell border embossed in the top right corner, and beneath it, written in Lilly’s clean, deliberate hand:   Notes for Savannah   Lilly wrote carefully, her pen gliding in smooth, practiced strokes—not rushed, not hesitant. This wasn’t just instruction. It was continuity. Care translated into language. Morning • Wake up by no later than 7:30 a.m. • Bladder Physical Therapy—or “Tummy Time,” as we call it—needs to happen immediately for 10–15 minutes • Depending on the state of his overnight diaper, Paul will ask for a change either before or after PT   Her pen paused. Not from doubt—but from interruption. Her eyes drifted sideways.   The iPad sat propped against the fruit bowl, the nanny cam feed glowing softly. Paul lay in his bed, utterly still except for the gentle bob of his pacifier as he breathed. His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks. His face was loose with rest in a way that still surprised her every time she saw it.   Lilly’s chest tightened.   A soft sound slipped out of her without permission—barely louder than breath.   “Mmm… that’s it, baby,” she murmured, the words instinctive, rounded, mother-soft. “Just rest.”   She hadn’t meant to speak aloud. She took a sip of tea to cover it, then returned to the page.   • Breakfast must include one serving of fresh fruit • This can be replaced with a yogurt + fruit smoothie (served in a bottle works best—sippy cups don’t) • If no smoothie, then a full sippy cup of juice: Apple & Kale or Pineapple, Watermelon & Beet   The word bottle sat there on the page, unremarkable to anyone else.   To Lilly, it glowed.   Not with shame. Not with embarrassment. With truth.   She remembered the way Paul’s body responded before his pride ever did. The way his shoulders dropped when his system finally got what it needed. The way he finished every last drop when his hands were shaking too badly to hold anything else.   Her mouth curved faintly.   “Good boy,” she whispered, almost unconsciously. “You listened to your body.” Lunch / Snacks / Dinner • Approved snacks are on the counter—other snacks are fine, but please aim for one full plate of approved items daily, with extra veggies + fruit • Pre-sliced trays are already in the fridge • Lunch is fend-for-yourself unless he’s regressing—then you’ll need to make something • Uber Eats gift card is on the island—add it to your account, order what you like (just avoid heavily processed stuff) tonight. • Dinner Saturday is covered: home made chicken pot pie in the freezer + Caesar salad ingredients (non-negotiable)   She smiled at that last line. Some fires needed boundaries. Some burned cleaner when contained. Diapering • Savannah, you already know his needs • Paul is in diapers 24/7, though we encourage any toilet use • He’s good at communicating for #2—wetting happens more frequently • For PT or basketball, he may choose a Step-In • Nighttime diapers must include booster pads—every night, and for naps if needed   Her gaze lifted again. Paul shifted slightly on-screen, sighing in his sleep. The sound—tiny, content—pulled her backward.   She’d found him outside under the pergola barely ninety minutes earlier, still sitting upright, empanada slipping slowly from his hand. He’d fallen asleep mid-bite, head tipped forward like his body had simply decided it was done negotiating.   Cute. Yes.   But Lilly saw more than that. She’d seen the heaviness in his jeans. The tension in his hips. The way his system had been holding on far longer than it should have.   She’d knelt beside him, cooed softly—shh, shh, hey baby—and tapped his shoulder just enough to bring him back without startling him.   When his eyes opened, there had been no fear. No guilt. Just warmth. Trust. They’d smiled at each other like conspirators.   “You did so great this morning,” she’d told him.   “Would you like some time for yourself upstairs? Nap or play?”   He’d said yes.   Then yes again, quietly, when she asked if he needed a change. And for reasons she still couldn’t fully name, she’d taken his hand as they walked through the controlled chaos of the set being dismantled—lights coming down, cords coiled, voices overlapping.   Nobody noticed.   Except maybe Martina. She was packing up food, watching without comment as Lilly guided Paul upstairs like it was the most natural thing in the world.   Later, when she tucked him into bed, he’d asked something small.   “Can you wake me up before Savvy gets here?”   She’d promised. But then he’d asked the thing that stayed with her.   “When you get back… can we talk?” “About your project. The GAP stuff. SMG. I wanna know more.” “…where I might fit?”   That question had lit something inside her that hadn’t burned in years. Regression Sessions • As per Mindy’s guidance, Paul should have one to two dedicated hour-long regression sessions daily • Paul dictates how little and how long—always his lead Bedtime Routine • Weekends begin at 8:00 p.m.—screens off, upstairs time • Reading, toys, or sitting in the hallway rocking chair are all fine • If he’s had a long or fussy day, a warm nighttime bottle (milk + vanilla + honey) is very effective • Tucked into bed by 8:45 p.m. at the latest   She set the pen down. For a moment, Lilly just sat there. Letting the weight of it all settle. The possibilities were intoxicating. Hilary had been buzzing after the shoot—already talking metrics, reach, organic engagement. Martina’s pilot had real traction. There was talk of a Goldhawk umbrella, of lifting other creators the way Lilly wished someone had lifted her years ago. This could work. This would work.   And Paul—brilliant, observant Paul—had seen something today. Not just control. Not just image. But care. Then the fire burned hot. Too hot. And then the other voice crept in, low and intimate, like smoke curling under a door.   You’re very good at this, it whispered. Building warmth. Setting tables. Just before you let them catch fire. Her jaw tightened. Her chest constricted. The voice pressed closer, teasing, cruel. Ask your father. Ask your mother. Ask your first lover or Ask...... Ask the people who trusted you just before you SET IT ALL ON FIRE!!!! Lilly’s breath hitched sharply. As you watched them all burn down..... “SHUT THE FUCK UP,” she snapped aloud, the words cracking through the empty kitchen like a thrown plate.   Silence answered.   Her hands trembled. She forced them still. Inhaled. Exhaled.   She folded the letter carefully—clean edges, precise corners—claiming control back piece by piece. Just then— A knock at the door. Bright. Respectful. Warm with anticipation.   “Lilly?” Savannah’s voice called. “It’s Savvy—I’m here.” Lilly closed her eyes once. Smoothed her shirt. Lifted her chin. The fire was still there. But this time—She held the match.     When Lilly opened the door, Savannah was still in her BeeBop scrubs — bright blues and greens softened by a long day’s wear, the fabric creased at the knees, the collar loosened just enough to show the toll of hours spent moving from room to room, tending to children who needed far more than charts and vitals. But her smile was still there. Unmistakable. Genuine.   The kind of smile that didn’t pretend the day hadn’t been hard — it simply refused to let that hardness win.   “Hey, Savvy,” Lilly said warmly, relief slipping into her voice before she could stop it.   Savannah barely had time to answer before Lilly stepped forward and wrapped her in a quick, instinctive hug — not the clinging kind, not the careful kind, but the kind that said I’m glad you’re here without needing to explain why.   “Long morning?” Lilly asked, pulling back just enough to look at her.   Savannah laughed softly. “Barely. I had three rugrats today who decided the clinic was an Olympic training facility.” There was fondness in the way she said it. Not complaint — pride.   Lilly smiled wider, already turning to lead her inside. “Well, then — welcome to the calm after the storm. Or at least… a different storm.”   “I’m really glad you’re here,” Lilly said quietly.   Savannah felt it — the weight of that sentence. Not as pressure. As trust.   Then the smell hit her. She paused mid-step, breath catching as warmth and spice wrapped around her senses.   “Oh wow…” she murmured. “That smells amazing.”   Lilly smiled, already knowing. “Yeah. That’s the aftermath of what happened earlier today. We shot a cooking pilot this morning — birria tacos and baked empanadas. If you didn’t get a chance to eat yet, there’s plenty left. Enough for two. Or three, if Paul decides he wants another round.”   Savannah’s face softened instantly. “He ate?”   “Two full plates,” Lilly said, pride threading through every syllable. “Slow. On his own.”   Savannah exhaled. Relief bloomed in her chest before she could stop it. “That’s… really good.”   “It is,” Lilly agreed. “It really is.”   Savannah glanced up the stairs. “Where is he?”   Lilly didn’t answer right away. She just turned, already walking. “Come on.”   Upstairs, the guest room waited quietly, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains that softened everything it touched. Savannah paused in the doorway. The room looked like something pulled from a boutique hotel — warm neutrals, layered textures, a queen-sized bed dressed in crisp linens and a hand-stitched throw folded just so at the foot. A small sitting chair rested near the window, a reading lamp angled precisely, as though someone had taken real care in imagining how a body might want to rest there.   A half bath tucked neatly to one side, its marble countertop cool and pristine. The main bathroom down the hall — visible through the open door — promised indulgence: a deep soaking tub, dimmable lights, the quiet luxury of space.   “You’re welcome to use whichever bathroom you want,” Lilly said gently. “Master’s downstairs if you want the big soak.”   A creeping smile tugged at Savannah’s mouth. But what flickered behind her eyes wasn’t just her in that bath.   It was memory.   Not the act itself — but the feeling. The quiet intimacy of helping Paul feel safe in his own body again. The way his shoulders had finally loosened that night. The way the lavender steam and familiar routine had grounded him — and her — into something steady and human.   It stirred something else now, too. Something she hadn’t named yet.   “I might take you up on that,” Savannah said lightly. “After today… I could use some me time.”   “Couldn’t we all,” Lilly murmured, setting Savannah’s overnight bag on the bed.   Then she handed her the folded letter.   “And this,” Lilly added, placing the tablet in Savannah’s hands. “Just in case.”   The nanny cam feed glowed softly on the screen.   Paul rested peacefully in his bed. Calm. Still. His breathing slow and even. Savannah felt the familiar settling in her chest — the same calm she’d felt months ago at Kim’s house, watching him on a screen for the first time. Back then, it had felt invasive. Wrong.   Now?   It felt normal. Like this was simply where he was supposed to be.   “I’ve got him,” Savannah said quietly.   Lilly believed her without question. She glanced at her watch. 1:45 p.m.   “I should head out soon,” she said, the words heavier than she wanted them to be.   Savannah nodded. “Do you want to wake him?”   Lilly smiled. “Together.”     Paul’s bedroom was across from the guest bedroom a little to its right; his room was quiet in that special way naps made possible. Filtered sunlight brushed the walls. The air smelled faintly clean, familiar, safe. He lay diagonally across the bed, limbs loose, without much in the way of attire, simply sporting a pair of his safari themed semi tranulatnt green plastic pants with his quite noticeable thick & thirsty diapers peaking out through a leg hole and the elastic waist band above the plastic pants. It was if he’d intended only to sit down for a moment and been claimed instead by sleep. Neither woman wanted to interupt the secne, in their own quiet way, cooed a sentence of sweet nothing inside her mind at the sight of him like this.   Lilly’s was instinctive and grounding—purely maternal. A soft, steady reassurance shaped by years of loving him through fear, illness, and recovery. There you are, baby. Safe. Resting. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.   Savannah’s came from a neighboring place, still nurturing, still careful—but threaded with something warmer, more personal. Not possession. Not urgency. Just a tenderness that lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary, a closeness that made her chest ache in a way she hadn’t yet put language to protectiveness that had been growing steadily.  A pull toward him that was no longer just professional, no longer just caretaking.  God… he’s so beautiful like this. Peaceful. Perfect.   Savannah moved to the left side of the bed. Lilly to the right. Savannah hummed softly — a wordless lullaby, barely audible.   Lilly reached out and stroked Paul’s hair back from his forehead, slow and familiar. “Hey, baby,” she cooed gently. “It’s okay… Mommy’s here.”   Paul shifted. Not sharply. Not in panic. Just the soft movement of someone drifting between worlds.   Savannah leaned closer, tracing her fingers lightly along his leg — grounding, steady. “Wakey, sweet boy,” she murmured. “Easy now.”   They said his name together. “Pauly.”   His eyes fluttered open. And for the first time in days — maybe longer — there was no fear waiting for him there.   Just warmth. Recognition. Fondness.   “Oh…” he breathed, voice soft, unguarded.   Savannah smiled, her tone slipping instinctively into that gentle cadence the story bible allowed. “Hi there, sweet boy. Looks like you had yourself a good nap, huh?”   Paul blinked slowly, the room coming into focus. Lilly. Savannah. No urgency. No edge.   Lilly leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek, then his forehead. “You did so good today,” she whispered. “Such a brave boy.”   Paul’s throat tightened — not from shame, not from fear — but from being seen.   Savannah squeezed his hand. “We’re gonna have a really good time, okay? Just you and me. Nice and easy.”   Paul nodded, his body already sinking into the softness of their voices.   This was becoming a regression session — not planned, not scheduled — but earned. His nervous system is finally getting a sustained break of peace and healing.   Lilly felt it too.   She trusted Savannah in this space completely. The same way she trusted Kim. The same way she trusted herself and Bryan. Savannah didn’t take. She listened. She followed Paul’s lead.   That mattered.   Lilly kissed him again, lingering. “You listen to Savvy,” she murmured. “And before you know it, Mommy Lilly will be back.”   Paul swallowed, eyes glossy but calm. “Okay… Mommy. Miss you.”   “I know,” Lilly said softly. “I’ll miss you too.”   Savannah leaned in just enough to catch his gaze. “Hi there, sweet boy,” she said again, quieter now. “We’re gonna have a really great time, huh?”   Paul breathed out and nodded as a shy smile began gently crawling across his face. For the first time in what felt like forever, his body believed it. And as Lilly stepped back — heart full, anxious, hopeful — Savannah settled in beside him, humming again, steady and present.   Unlike Harley, Savannah wasn’t chasing a feeling. She was holding space.   As he settled, Paul didn’t feel smaller or fragile—he felt like he’d just stepped into the start of something he didn’t want to miss.

Chapter 19: My First Birthday (Again) A warm ray of sunlight touched my eyes again.  How long has it been?  How long has it been since I just gave up? Days.  Weeks.  Months.  And since I was just a baby again, there was no telling just how much time had passed by. But I was happy.  I had to be.  I…I was used to it.  Used to being coddled every single day by my mother. Used to getting my diaper changed every morning.  Used to being breastfed and rocked in my mother’s lap. Used to my naps and my regularly scheduled tummy time. Used to trying to push myself up until I could sit.  Used to trying to crawl.  Used to being told bedtime stories. Used to being given baths with my twin sister.  Yes.  Abby was my twin sister.  My mother said so.  Now would my mother ever lie to me? Used to being held in my mother’s arms.  Used to being fed warm milk from a baby bottle.  Used to playing with my toys.  The fun colorful shapes that I tried to force through the different holes.  Someday I’ll figure out the right holes but it was all very exciting to me now. Used to trying to grab the couch and balance myself enough to stand.  Used to making short and stubby steps around the vast living room with the help of the furniture.  They were my steps and I was very proud of them. Used to putting all my teething toys in my mouth.  Used to grabbing various things that I saw to see if they could go in my mouth.  My mother had had to take these things away from me for some reason.  Used to being pushed in the stroller with my twin sister on warm days when my mother took us to the park.  Used to riding in the shopping cart when my mother needed new groceries.  Used to bath time with my sister. I was used to it.  All of it.  This was my new life.  A tragic life that I slowly accepted as my own. But fortunately, I wasn’t alone.  My sister Abby shared that life with me. As small as my body was, I almost forgot that I was really just sixteen years old.  Wait.  Was I still sixteen? That didn’t matter anymore.  I was a baby now. Gabby was a baby with me.  We were trapped.  Both of us. THUAK! My head hit the railing of the crib that I was still sitting in.  I could see my sister in the crib beside me. But then I felt the pain from hitting the railing. And as much as I tried to fight the tears, the sensation was just too great for me to take. “WAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”  I cried, now used to hearing my helpless infantile wail. The door creaked open and my mother picked me up. “What’s wrong, my Gab Gab?” My mother chirped in her syrupy sweet voice.  “Oh dear!  That’s quite the bump!  Did you hit your head again?  That’s not a very good birthday gift at all, hun.” I gasped.  Birthday?  It’s my birthday? “12 months, my Gabbycadabry.  You and Abbycadabry.  My twin girls are a year-old today.” One year.  It has been one year since it happened.  One year since I drank the milk.  One year since I became a newborn again. But…I somehow thought of my old memories of when I used to be a teenager.  My homework.  My genealogy assignment.  What did the teachers say?  Did my mother just cover it all up like she did with everything else? “Both of you girls are probably very very hungry.” My mother said with a smile.  “But Gabby, here.  There is no need to cry, hun.  Here’s your pacie.  There you go.” I was still crying.  I was so used to it that I didn’t even realize how red my face was.  Crying was a normal part of life for me now. “Pee yew, Gabby!  It looks like my little Gabby needs a new diaper!” And so it continued.  Continued like it always has.  I cast a curious glance at my mother to notice something different about her.  Is it me, or does my mother look like a teenager now?  Maybe at least 18 or 19.  Did she try to make herself younger again?  Perhaps she used a little bit too much of the youth formula by mistake. Yeah.  I could see it.  The hormone ridden face of my younger mother.  How could she pass for a doctor at Harvard now?  That is not my problem, but my mother’s.  My only problem is the messy diaper that she has to change before I cry again. My mother changed my diaper and put a fresh one on me.  She put me back into my pajamas and sat me in my playpen while she changed my twin sister.  Yeah.  I have entirely given up on saying that Gabby is not my twin, considering how many times my mother said that we were twins.  True or not, it’s my mother’s word now. After my sister was changed, my mother sat us both in a rocking chair.  We sat on her lap, while each of us latched onto one of her breasts.  Yes.  I was now even used to the taste of my mother’s breast milk.  It was sweet like it always has been. What I love the most is how my mother doesn’t discipline me or my sister anymore.  We are just babies so we don’t know anything about rules yet.  All we get at this age is her love and her care.  And I appreciated this more than any of the painful spankings that I got as a teenager. If it has really been a year, then it has been a year since I have been in the west wing of the Rivers Estate.  At this point, the east wing now looked more lived in with my mother taking care of me and my sister there.  Our highchairs were set up in the kitchen in that wing, along with everything else that my mother used to take care of me and my sister. After my mother finished nursing me and Abby, she got us out of our footed sleepers and dressed us both in matching pink and frilly dresses.  For me and Abby, everything matched.  After all, we were twins, so everything had to match.  And despite it being a lie, everyone in public believed it. And with a year of it myself, I started to believe it. I pulled myself up again, lining my stubby legs up against the seat of the couch.  The folds of my frilly pink dress covered part of my legs, as I struggled to maintain my balance. But then my legs gave way.  They both wobbled as I began to crash to the floor. Abby, however, was beginning to steady herself and even began making a few tiny strides towards my mother. “My little Abby is learning to walk!” My mother cooed.  “12 months and she is starting to walk!” That’s when I realized the chilling reality of my twin sister.  She really was my older sister, and this was probably her fourth time that she has learned how to walk. Feeling jealous, I use the couch again to steady my legs but quickly lost my balance after letting go. This is pathetic.  12 months old.  One year old and I can’t even walk!  Maybe if my mother didn’t coddle me so much, I would’ve been walking a couple of months ago! Frustrated, I watched my sister Abby walk all the way into my mother’s arms. “Good job, Abs!” My mother said with a smile.  She then cast a compassionate stare at me.  “Don’t worry, Gabby.  You’ll learn to walk very soon.  Maybe not on your birthday, but maybe in another week or two.  Aw, you’re so close! So close.  Yes.  But then another thought crept into my mind.  So close. I was so close to escaping with my sister a year ago.  So close to leaving the Rivers Estate for good. So close to reporting my mother to the police.  So close. But sadly, that was my old life.  My new life is enjoying the comfort that my mother gives to me and my sister.  No consequences.  No punishments.  Just love. And best of all, I got to share that with my twin sister.  The lie was working too well. That night, my mother fed me and Abby colorful carrots with pasta and mashed potatoes.  Two raspberry vanilla smash cakes sat on the trays of both of our highchairs.  Each of the two cakes had one unlit candle, which my mother obviously didn’t light since she didn’t want either of us to burn our fingers on the candle, even if she were to blow it out. My mother hugged both me and Abby as she began to sing: Happy birthday to you Happy birthday to you Happy birthday dear Abigail and Gabrielle Happy birthday to you! “And many morrrrrrrrrrrreeeeee!” My mother sang, holding the last sustained note for a few seconds. “Okay, my girls.  Help yourself to that cake!” And that’s what I did.  I dug both my hands into the raspberry vanilla smash cake and shoved the pieces into my mouth, giving my mother the biggest smile after I did.  Abby too showed a similar smile to mine. Both our faces were completely covered in the smash cake but we were both babies and we didn’t care.  The pieces were falling down our faces as we smeared the frosting all over our cheeks, with a couple of the raspberries splattering on our chins. “You both like it?” My mother chirped. “Good. Let’s get you all ready for bed.” My mother got us both ready for bed.  She gave me and Abby a bath and got us both into nighttime diapers and matching faded pink footed sleepers. But it wasn’t bedtime yet. Instead, my mother had a small pile of presents for both me and Abby. It was more toys.  More dresses.  More onesie rompers.  More pacifiers.  More bibs.  One present was a nice blanket that was big enough to cover me and my sister.  All the clothes that both me and Abby got matched since we were twins. After the gifts were opened, my mother began to tell us a bedtime story, while she stuck a new pacifier in my mouth and in Abby’s. After that, I felt like I was about to fall asleep. But I was on my mother’s lap again.  Abby was beside me. Both of my mother’s breasts were fully exposed.  One for me and one for my sister. The nighttime nursing began, and I drank my fill of my mother’s breast milk.  Like all other days and nights, I was used to it.  Used to the formerly new routine that now felt normal. It was all normal. My old life was gone.  My teenage life felt like a former memory that felt almost false and dream-like.  This was my life now.  I…was a baby now.  My sister was a baby again. I was just about fast asleep when my mother placed me in my crib.  Of all the things that I had to figure out, one thing was certain. I was going to walk again.  I wasn’t about to be outdone by my twin.  Sooner or later, I was going to walk if it was the last thing that I did.   It seems that way.  Hopefully, the girls will encounter them sooner or later.  I'm not going to say when but they will appear later on. 

I'm in my thickest one, a forsite Lil Heros. 

I win!