Trading Post

If I accidentally ended up in the DD, I would also prefer to be a girl, with all the consequences, if you understand.

Nice short story, any thoughts of continuing it?

What a gentleman lil Paul is, I think hes smitten on his savvy.   Im liking the way savvy just kinda let's things roll and dosent shove Paul into little mode for everything like Harley seems to do.   Im betting movie night tomorrow is gonna be awesome for the two pals.  I think savvy is gonna be a real help to Paul.   Can't wait to see what lies in wait for us all.   

I wonder what the pill really was. Was it just something to calm his nerves or was it something else?

Chapter One Hundred & Ten: Pt 2 For half a heartbeat, nothing moved. Not the TV. Not the air. Not even the dust in the late-day light. Just the sound—too human, too loud, too impossible to pretend didn’t happen—hanging in the space between Paul’s ribs and Savannah’s steady arms. And then Paul’s body did what it always did when the spell broke.   It snapped him back. Violently.   Like someone yanked a cord and dragged his “big” self up through the surface of the water—lungs burning, heart hammering, every nerve suddenly awake and exposed.   Heat rushed into his face so fast it felt like a flash burn. His eyes went wide. Then narrower. Then wide again—darting left, right, anywhere but her.   He felt the state he was in before he even thought about it. The blanket on the floor. The pillow propping Savannah against the couch. Her arms around him, his pacifier clip at his collar, the whole scene—soft and sweet and safe a second ago—now lit up in his mind like a crime scene.   His tracker on his wrist pulsed once. Green. Then it blinked. Yellow.   Paul swallowed hard, but his throat was suddenly too small for the size of the shame trying to get through it. His breathing turned shallow. Uneven. The kind that didn’t fill his chest all the way. He heard himself make a sound—half a whimper, half a choke—and hated it immediately. Inside him, the argument started the way it always did: not as words at first, but as force. A shove. A recoil. A split. This is your fault.   The big side’s voice came in harsh, sharp-edged, panicked with pride. You let yourself get comfortable. You let yourself do this. You sat here like a… like a freak. You did this in front of her. In front of Savannah. His stomach clenched. His heart punched at his ribs. No girl—no woman—could ever want this.   Not a girlfriend. Not a future. Not the version of you who used to be on film sets with your dad, who used to laugh like it was nothing. Not even the girl who grew up with you.   The thought landed heavier than the sound that had started all of this.   If Savannah sees you like this… she’ll see you like this forever.   Paul’s eyes flicked to her—just for a second—and then away again, as if contact itself might lock him into place.   His little side, still warm from the songs and the cuddling, didn’t disappear. It clung. It pressed up from inside him like a hand on his back.   This just comes with the healing. That voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t smart. It didn’t argue like a lawyer.   It argued like a child who knew the truth with their whole body.   You didn’t do anything bad. You’re not bad. You’re just… you. And Savvy’s already seen and changed our poopy diapee’s before, silly.   And then, softer still: You matter. You got to be big today. You helped. You made it through. Then You got to laugh. You got to sing. You got to feel safe.   Paul’s jaw trembled. The two voices collided, and he was the place they fought. The big side kept spiraling, piling weight onto weight: You mess up everything. You can’t even relax without your body humiliating you. You can’t even have one good afternoon without paying for it. And then it went darker—because fear always tried to sound like logic when it wanted to win: “Maybe I should just disappear.” Paul’s chest tightened so hard his lungs stuttered. His tracker blinked again. Yellow. Stronger. Climbing.   Savannah felt the shift immediately.   Not the sound—she didn’t even flinch at that, not really. Bodies did what bodies did. She’d worked a morning shift full of toddler chaos, and she’d lived with enough clinical reality to know shame wasn’t the emergency.  She watched his eyes go unfocused. Watched him leave the room while still sitting right there in it. Watched his shoulders creep upward like he was trying to fold himself smaller than his own skin.   And she heard his breathing turn thin.   Her gaze flicked to the tracker. The yellow pulse was no longer casual.   It was urgent.   Savannah’s first thought wasn’t what do I say. It was how do I reach him without yanking him? Because this mattered—more than comfort, more than routine, more than any “right” response.   This was a boundary line. Not big versus little. Not caregiver versus patient. This was: Can you stay with me while you’re scared? Can I help without taking you over? Savannah shifted carefully, unthreading her arms from around his waist. Not pulling away—just repositioning. She turned until she was facing him fully. Slow. Deliberate. Her hands landed on his shoulders. Warm. Grounding. Not gripping. Just anchoring him in place. “Paul,” she said gently—but firm enough that his name became a railing. His eyes didn’t meet hers. They skittered, trapped in everything he didn’t want her to see. Savannah lowered her voice by a notch. Not babying. Not clinical. Just… steady. “Paul, can you look at me, please?” His throat worked. Then his gaze lifted—jerky at first, like a camera trying to refocus—and landed on her face. “There we go,” Savannah murmured, the words soft with relief. “That’s it.”   Paul’s pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were still hot. His mouth parted like he wanted to apologize, explain, erase. Savannah didn’t give him the chance to spiral into that.   “Let’s do a few breathing exercises,” she said, slow and clear. “Just to bring you back.”   Paul’s big side was in the driver’s seat now—rigid, ashamed, trying to stand at attention while everything inside shook. But his little side hadn’t let go. It was there in the way his lower lip quivered. In the way his shoulders stayed tense under her hands as if bracing for impact.   Paul nodded once.   “Okay,” he managed.   The word came out rough. Adult. Strained. Savannah’s eyes softened at the effort it took him to say it.   “Good,” she said. “You don’t have to do this perfectly. Just do it with me.”   She modeled first—breathing in through her nose, slow enough to count, then out through her mouth like she was cooling soup.   “In,” she said quietly. “Two… three… four.”   Paul tried.   His inhale hit a snag halfway through, like his body didn’t trust air anymore. Savannah didn’t correct him. She didn’t flinch. She just stayed. “And out,” she said, lower. “Two… three… four… five.”   Paul exhaled. It shook on the way out, but it was an exhale. His tracker pulsed again—still yellow, but less frantic. Savannah watched his chest. Watched his shoulders drop by a millimeter.   “Again,” she said. “In.” He followed. This time the air made it deeper. Savannah gave him a small nod—I see you. “Out.” Paul’s eyes closed for the length of the exhale, like he was trying to hide in the darkness behind his lids. Then— A cramp twisted low in his abdomen, sharp and sudden, like his body had waited for him to calm down just long enough to remind him it was still in charge. Paul stiffened. His breath caught. His eyes snapped open, full of panic—because now there was a second fear layered under the first: What if it happens again. What if I can’t control anything. His tracker flickered brighter.   Savannah felt it in his shoulders before she saw it in the light. Okay, she thought. This is the fork in the road. If she pushed him into being “big,” he’d shatter under the pressure of having to perform normally. If she pushed him into being “little,” he’d feel robbed—like his dignity had been stolen to make everyone else more comfortable. So she chose the only thing that honored both. Choice. Savannah kept her hands on his shoulders and spoke quietly, right into the space between them.   “Hey,” she said, grounding him with the word. “I felt that. You just got a cramp, yeah?”   Paul nodded, fast. Too fast. His face had gone pale under the blush. Savannah didn’t look away. She didn’t scan him like a problem.   She treated him like a person.   “Okay.” Her voice stayed even. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re not in trouble. Your body’s just… having a moment.”   Paul’s throat bobbed. His eyes shone, angry with tears he didn’t want. Savannah continued, calm as a hand on the back of his neck.   “You can tell me what you need. We can pause the movie. We can keep breathing. We can go sit differently. We can take a minute in the bathroom. You pick.”   Paul blinked hard.   The big side wanted to say, I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. The little side wanted to say, hold me. What came out was the mess in the middle.   “I—” Paul’s voice cracked. He swallowed. “I don’t want you to think I’m….”   His eyes flicked down, ashamed of even implying the rest. Savannah’s hands squeezed gently—one squeeze, not a hold.   “I don’t,” she said immediately. Not defensively. Not performative.   “I think you’re having a hard moment. And I think you’re doing really good staying with me in it.”   Paul stared at her like he didn’t know what to do with kindness that didn’t ask him to earn it. Savannah let a small, wry breath out—not quite a laugh, but close enough to give him somewhere to land.   “Okay,” she said, returning to calm. “One more breath with me.”   Paul nodded. They inhaled together. And exhaled together.   Savannah leaned in just slightly, eyes level with his.   “And Paul?” she said, voice firm enough to hold weight. “What you said earlier—about disappearing?”   Paul froze, he thought he was talking to himself. “I-you-you heard that?”   The big side flinched, instantly afraid she’d heard too much. That she’d seen too deep. Savannah didn’t let him drown in that. She kept her tone steady, careful.   “I’m not mad you said it,” she said. “But I’m not going to let you be alone with it, okay?” Paul’s eyes filled fast now. His mouth opened. Closed.   Savannah softened her hands on his shoulders into a reassuring hold—not pulling him, just connecting.   “You and I can handle hard thoughts,” she said quietly. “But we handle them out loud. With help. With people who love you.”   The word love sat there. Paul’s lower lip trembled. The little side whispered inside him: See? She didn’t leave.   But before anybody could define or clarify what love meant....   Another louder & longer wet fart exploded behind Paul, he had no choice and felt his body in control as he desperately searched for privicy he turnded away from Savannah and knelt down on his knees and began pushing the load out. He grunted softly as he pushed. Paul’s hands balled themselves up automatically. Time seemed to freeze, prolonging the moment, the silence only interrupted by his increasingly forceful grunts and the crinkling of his ever-expanding diaper.   Savannah knew right away what was happening. She moved a little closer to Paul, still giving him space, and watched as his diaper expanded like a hot-air balloon, thirsty for takeoff. But true to her word, Savvy didn’t run, instead she grabbed Paul’s right hand, unclenching it from a fist, and held his hand in hers. As she leaned and cooed softly in his ear, “it’s okay, Paul. Just get it all out. Push. You don’t need to be embarrassed. I’ll get you all clean.”     Paul was eternally grateful that Savvy had suggested the bathroom. Not because it erased what had happened—his body had already made sure of that—but because it gave him something back when everything inside him felt stripped bare. Control. Choice. A door that could close. Savannah hadn’t raised her voice. Hadn’t rushed toward him. She hadn’t tried to soothe him back into softness or pull him further into it. She’d simply met his eyes, steady and present, and said, Why don’t you take care of yourself in the bathroom. I’ll grab you what you need. Shower after, if you want.   That mattered more than she could ever know.   Paul had nodded, unable to trust his voice, and started up the stairs. Each step was careful, measured—his body heavier than usual, his mind louder than it had been all day. Behind him, Savannah watched him go, her chest tightening in a way she didn’t let herself act on.   The sight did something to her. Melted her, if she was honest. The instinct to help—to really help—rose immediately. The changing table was ready. She knew exactly what to do. A part of her wanted to step in, to take the moment from him, to spare him the humiliation.   And she didn’t. Because Paul hadn’t asked. Because dignity mattered more than comfort—hers or his.   Unless he asked, she would let him lead. Even if it meant standing there with the aftermath still hanging in the air. Even if it meant swallowing the ache in her chest that came from wanting to protect him too much. She gathered what would be needed later—quietly, deliberately—placing everything in order without ceremony. This wasn’t preparation to take over. It was readiness. If Paul asked, she would be there. If he didn’t, she would stay exactly where she belonged.   Waiting.   When Paul returned, the heat of embarrassment had faded into something duller and more manageable. He climbed onto the changing table in his room. When Savannah asked Paul where’s the rest of the wipes? He responded   “I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I used the whole pack.”   Savannah looked up from where she stood and smiled—not surprised, not amused. Just warm.   “That’s okay,” she said. “You did what you needed.”   No commentary. No teasing. No lingering reassurance. She just went on about the change, “Almost done, Paul!” Savvy says as she turns to the powder and sprinkles it on. The infantile smell of the powder tickles both of their noses. Paul noticses that Savvy must have found the dino diapers as he watches her wrap it around him, four tapes securing Paul until my next change. She taps my diaper and says “all done, Paul” in a sing-song voice.  As she zipped him back up, Paul felt something settle inside him—not pride, exactly, but steadiness. The sense that he hadn’t failed. That this moment didn’t define him. The fabric hugged him in a way that made his body feel contained rather than exposed. The prints—greens, blues, cartoonish teeth—were childish, sure. But he loved dinosaurs. Always had. That part of him didn’t vanish just because he was seventeen.   When she stepped back, Savannah deliberately gave him space.   “So,” she asked gently, “what do you want to do for the rest of the evening?”   The question landed harder than he expected. Something inside Paul shifted—not toward softness, but toward resolve. A need stirred—not to reject comfort, but to prove to himself that he could still function without it wrapping around every edge.   He glanced down again at what he was wearing.   Comfortable. Embarrassing. …kind of okay.   Straightening his shoulders, he spoke with as much confidence as a seventeen-year-old sitting on a changing table could muster.   “Well… I don’t know what you were thinking,” he said, “but there’s a new Now You See Me movie coming out tonight. Could we maybe go see it tomorrow? My treat.”   Savannah’s smile bloomed immediately.   Her mother’s voice echoed softly in her head: You let him choose. Big or little. That’s how care works.   “I’m in,” Savannah said, animated. “But I’ve never seen any of them.”   Paul laughed. “They’re popcorn movies. Zero brain cells required. The first one’s good, the second’s… fine. Daniel Radcliffe’s the villain in that one.”   He hesitated, then added, catching himself, “We could watch the first one tonight. Maybe even the second if—if I could stay up later than my beddy-by—” He stopped. Corrected. “—my bedtime.”   The puppy-dog eyes appeared before he could stop them.   Savannah giggled. “Nice try. I’ll give you an extra thirty minutes. That’s it.”   “Deal.”   She asked about dinner. Paul shrugged—more adult now, more observant.   “I’m not picky.”   Savannah tilted her head. “Ever had Brazilian-Portuguese food?”   “No,” he said. Then, mirroring her tone—controlled, playful, adult—he added, “Sounds like you have though. I’ll gratefully accept any recommendation.”   Savannah smiled. “Okay then. Rustic 21 Bistro.”   She pulled out her phone and turned the screen toward him. The menu was clean and modern—warm wood tones, crisp photography, food meant to be shared. Savannah walked him through it slowly, explaining textures and flavors rather than just names.   “We’ll start with appetizers,” she said. “Things we can pick at.”   She pointed to the Dadinho de Tapioca   “These are addictive,” she said. “Crunchy, salty, a little sweet.”   Next highlighted the Mini Coxinhas—“These are classic,” Savannah added. “You eat one and suddenly want five more.”   For the main, she didn’t hesitate. “We’ll share the Carne Asada,” she said. “Slow-cooked beef, tender enough to pull apart with a fork. White rice, black beans, collard greens, fried banana, and farofa—kind of a toasted cassava crumble.”   Paul nodded, genuinely interested.   “And dessert?” Savannah asked.   He didn’t hesitate.   “Petit gâteau de dulce de leche.”   Savannah smiled. “Confident pick.”   “My dad and I had something like it in Mexico City,” Paul said casually. “Back in 2015. He got stunt credits on Spectre. They had it on set one night. Unreal.”   Savannah stilled. This wasn’t the Paul most people saw.   This was someone who’d traveled the world before most kids learned how to stay still. Someone with stories tucked behind the softness. Someone who’d seen film sets, cities, cultures—without ever really having a place that stayed the same.   And in that realization came another—quieter, heavier. To be that traveled, he’d had to give something up. A home. A routine. A childhood that stayed still long enough to be safe.   Had he ever really had a mother-son dynamic? Was that why he’d pushed back so hard against Lilly at first—and then melted into her care once he let himself? And did thaty kind of devoultion apply to anybody who could have that same kind of maternal relationship, even her?   Savannah stopped herself before the thought of “baby fever” could grow teeth. She placed the order, set the phone aside, and looked back at him.   “Movie night?” she asked.   Paul smiled—small, genuine.   “Yeah,” he said. “Movie night.”     The movie rolled on, the familiar rhythm of Now You See Me filling the living room with clever misdirection and quick cuts. Paul sat upright on the far end of the couch, not curled into Savannah this time, not leaning for reassurance—just sitting. Present. Grounded. A sippy cup rested in his hand, its soft silicone mouthpiece pressed to his lips now and then. It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t what he’d choose if his body cooperated the way it used to. But tonight, it didn’t feel like a mark against him. It felt… practical. Necessary. Neutral.   Adult enough. And that mattered more than he wanted to admit.   Because for the first time in a long while, Paul wasn’t measuring himself against what he’d lost. He wasn’t counting deficits or tallying accommodations. He was simply participating. Watching a movie. Sharing space. Existing without apology. The tracker on his wrist stayed steady. Green. Calm.   Savannah noticed the shift immediately.   Not because Paul announced it—he never would—but because his energy changed. His shoulders weren’t tight. His jaw wasn’t clenched. He wasn’t performing confidence or bracing for correction. He was just… there. And Savannah, who had spent years learning how to read bodies before words, recognized it for what it was: ease.   She didn’t interrupt it.   She stayed angled toward the screen, one leg tucked under herself, the other stretched out casually. She laughed at the right moments. Leaned forward when the plot twisted. And—most importantly—she talked to him about the movie, not around him.   “Okay,” she said during a particularly slick reveal, eyebrows lifting. “That was clever. You see that coming?”   Paul smirked, a real one. The kind that didn’t ask for permission.   “Sort of,” he said. “The editing gives it away if you know what to look for. They do that thing where the camera avoids showing hands too long.”   Savannah turned her head then, actually looking at him. Not surprised—impressed.   “Okay, film guy,” she said. “I see you.”   The words landed softly, but they hit deep.   Paul felt it then—that subtle internal click. The sense that he wasn’t pretending to be okay, or borrowing adulthood from someone else’s expectations. He was inhabiting it. Not the old version of himself, untouched and effortless. But something newer. Adapted. Still him.   And maybe—just maybe—enough.   By the time the final lines of the movie faded out—the trick isn’t how you do it… it’s why—they were already shifting gears. The couch gave way to the floor, an old vinyl tablecloth spread out carefully to protect the rug and hardwood beneath. Savannah smoothed it flat with practiced ease, like this wasn’t unusual at all.   Dinner came out in stages. First, the Dadinho de Tapioca—golden cubes crisped to perfection, steam still rising as Savannah set them between them. The cheese inside pulled just slightly when broken open, and the pepper jelly glistened, sticky-sweet with a quiet heat that crept up instead of shouting.   Paul watched the steam curl upward, felt the warmth of the plate through the tablecloth. It struck him—how present he was. How tuned in. Food wasn’t just fuel tonight. It was experience.   The Mini Coxinhas—little teardrops of comfort, the chicken inside tender and seasoned just enough to make Paul close his eyes for a second after the first bite.   “Okay,” he said, swallowing. “I get the hype.”   Savannah laughed. “Right?”   The Carne Asada followed, plated generously: slow-cooked beef so soft it barely needed a fork, white rice fluffed just right, black beans rich and earthy, collard greens glossy with oil and garlic, fried banana caramelized at the edges, and farofa sprinkled across the top like a finishing touch meant to be noticed. Paul adjusted the blue terry cloth bib around his neck without comment. He was aware of it—but not ashamed. Savannah didn’t look at it twice. Didn’t soften her voice. Didn’t shift her posture. The message was clear without being spoken: this doesn’t define you.   They ate easily.   “This is insane,” Savannah said, gesturing with her fork. “Like… unfairly good.”   Paul nodded, concentrating on a bite. His hands tremored slightly—barely noticeable—but enough that the bib did its job when a bit of rice slipped free. Instead of spiraling, Paul just… kept eating.   “Worth it,” he said. “All of it.”   At one point, Savannah tilted her head toward the TV, where the menu screen still glowed faintly.   “Wait—who was that again? The one with the cards?”   Paul turned to answer— —and Savannah seized the moment. A quick swipe of pepper jelly, playful and precise, streaked across his cheek.   He froze. Then burst out laughing.   “Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” he said, eyes lighting up.   Before she could react, he flicked a collard green clean off his fork.   It landed squarely on her nose.   “Direct hit,” Paul said, triumphant.   Savannah gasped. “Oh. Oh, you’re soooo done.”   She lunged, longer arms catching him easily as she tickled his stomach, careful but relentless. Paul’s laughter filled the room—loud, unguarded, real.   “I give! I give!” he managed between gasps.   She let up, breathless and smiling, the green still hanging there until she finally plucked it off and dropped it dramatically onto the tablecloth.   They sat there for a moment afterward. Cross-legged. Full. Warm. Comfortable.   Paul leaned back on his hands, chest rising evenly.   And it hit him—not all at once, but slowly, like dawn.   This didn’t feel like survival. This didn’t feel like management. This felt like a life that could grow.   Not one without accommodations. Not one without softness. But one where those things weren’t the whole story. Where effort mattered. Where choice mattered. Where he could meet someone halfway instead of being carried the entire distance. Savannah, watching him from the corner of her eye, saw it too. The clock on Savannah’s iPhone glowed 9:35 p.m. She noticed it only because the room had finally gone quiet enough for time to matter again. Her thumb hovered for half a second before tapping a familiar contact. Mama   The phone rang once. Twice.   Savannah exhaled as she leaned back into the couch, the leather cool against her shoulders. Her feet were propped comfortably on the coffee table, which she’d pulled back earlier to give herself space. A small glass jar of nail polish sat open beside her—“Florida Kissed.” All ten of her toes shimmered a bright, unapologetic orange, glossy and wet as she flexed them slightly, careful not to smudge as they dried.   She smiled to herself. It felt like Florida. Like home.   Off to her left, the tablet Lilly had handed her earlier sat propped upright, the nanny cam feed still active. Paul’s room glowed softly on the screen—lamplight low, shadows gentle. He was tucked in now, breathing evenly, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady.  Savannah wore her lounge set now—light khaki waffle-knit, long sleeves loose at the wrists, shorts soft and forgiving at the waist. Comfortable. Unclinical. The kind of clothes that let your body finally exhale.   “Hey Mama,” Savannah said as the call connected, her voice instantly softer.   She listened for a moment, nodding even though Kim couldn’t see her.   “Mmhmm… yeah. Long day—but a good one.”   She glanced toward the tablet again, then back toward the ceiling, choosing her words carefully.   “So… Lilly and I woke Paul up together after his nap,” she began. “He woke up already wanting to stay little. Not upset—just… settled there. He stayed that way for about two hours.”   A pause. Savannah listened, smiling faintly.   “He ate really well, Mama. Like—really well. Colored me another picture from that Batman book you got him. He’s almost finished the whole thing.” She chuckled quietly. “You can tell when he’s more little—the coloring’s messier. Big strokes. Then, when he drifts back up, it gets all careful and neat again. It’s kind of beautiful, honestly.”   She shifted on the couch, one leg dropping to the floor as she listened again.   “There was a moment,” Savannah continued, lowering her voice instinctively, “where things almost tipped. He had an accident— a very stinky and messy one—but you could see his big side panic. Like it slammed forward all at once.”   She swallowed, choosing precision over emotion.   “So I did what you said. I didn’t rush him. I gave him the choice. He chose to clean up privately in the bathroom first. I stayed nearby. Then I helped him finish getting all sweaky clean before the next change.”   Her voice softened. “He handled it really well. Really proud of him.” She smiled, warmth blooming in her chest.   “And Mama… he’s been big all night since. Like—big big. Absolute prince charming.” She laughed under her breath. “He even recommended we go see a movie tomorrow.”   A pause. Then—   “Yes. Of course we’re going.”   Another pause, Savannah’s brow furrowing slightly as she listened.   “Hmmm… yeah. I hadn’t thought about that.” She nodded slowly. “You’re right. Just the two of us might be a little obvious.”   She sighed, then laughed softly, a hint of a whine slipping into her tone.   “Well, I was gonna bring my big purse anyway. I can just stuff an extra change in there with wipies and the small powder container.” A beat. “Yes, Mama. The Jeep too. I’ll leave the bag in the Jeep.”   She rolled her eyes affectionately, shaking her head.   “Okay, okay.”   Savannah stretched her toes, checking the polish again as she shifted topics.   “Oh! After his changey, I ordered food from Rustic 21 Bistro. Lilly left an Uber Eats gift card.” She smiled, eyes drifting to the memory. “Mama—you should have seen him. Lilly’s been shopping. I can only assume you sent her that site where you got all those jungle prints? Because now she’s added dinosaurs.”   Savannah laughed softly.   “She got him this darling one-piece romper—same prints. Adorable. He adores them. He tries to hide it, but I swear he thinks they’re cool enough to wear even when he’s not little.”   She listened again, nodding.   “Yeah. All the time now, according to his chart and Lilly’s instructions.” A pause. “Oh—and the sleep sack. Not tonight though. His choice.”   She glanced toward the tablet again, smiling fondly.   “Oh! Yeah—nanny cam’s set up for naps and bedtime.”   Then— Her breath caught. “Oh—shit.”   The nanny cam feed jolted as Paul rolled, then slipped sideways—tumbling gently but unmistakably out of bed. Savannah shot upright, phone pressed tighter to her ear.   “No—Mama, he just fell out of bed.” Her voice stayed calm, steady. “He doesn’t look hurt. Hold on.”   She tapped the speaker.   “Paul, sweetie?” she said gently. “I saw and heard you fall—are you alright?”   On the tablet, Paul rubbed the back of his head, then his left arm, blinking sleepily. He nodded.   “Yeah,” his voice crackled through the speaker. “Sorry, Savvy. I think I was just dreamin’. I’m okay.”   Savannah exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders.   “Alright then, sweetheart. Get back into bed, okay? We’ve got a big day tomorrow—you need your rest.”   “Thanks,” Paul murmured. “I will.”   She watched as he climbed back in, tugged the covers up, settled. Only then did Savannah bring the phone back to her ear.   “He’s alright now,” she said softly. “Scared me for a second.”   She smiled again, warmth returning.   “He ate everything we ordered tonight. Everything.” She laughed. “I even got a little film commentary from him about the movie we’re seeing tomorrow. He’s excited, Mama. And… I’m excited too.”   She leaned back into the couch, eyes closing briefly.   “I know—care is guided, not forced. I’ve been practicing what you’ve been preaching.”   A pause.   “So—what are you and Daddy up to tonight?” Savannah smirked. “Better not be announcing a fifth sibling after that trip to the Keys.”   For the first time, Mama Kim’s voice cut through the speaker, clear and amused:   “You—you little heifer, Savannah Grace,” Mama Kim drawled, her voice rich with that soft Georgia-by-way-of-Sunday-church cadence. “You know good and well after William I got your daddy fixed. Don’t you go tryin’ to manifest another baby on my watch.”   Savannah burst out laughing, head tipping back against the couch. She knew exactly which nerve she’d poked—and Kim loved her for knowing how to poke it.   “I knew that’d get you,” she said between laughs.   “Well—don’t have too much fun without me. Would’ve been nice to sit by the fire pit tonight with some hot chocolate, maybe extra whipped cream, a little cinnamon if we’re bein’ indulgent.” Savannah smiled, softer now. “Save me some.”   She glanced once more at the tablet.   “He’s been an excellent host, Mama. Even cleaned up our little living room picnic himself.” Her voice softened. “That little waddle he does when he’s tired? Adorbs”   She listened, nodding.   “Alright. I’m gonna read a bit, finish the rest of this movie, and head to bed before midnight.”   A pause.   “Yes—I’ll give him a good morning kiss from Mama Kim.”   She smiled.   “Love you too.”   12:00 a.m. glowed on the microwave clock like a quiet dare—too late to call it evening, too early to call it morning. The Goldhawk kitchen, so alive at noon with camera lights and applause and sizzling griddles, had slipped into its after-hours self: hushed, polished, expensive in a way that felt almost sacred when nobody was performing for it.   The overhead pendants were dimmed low, throwing warm pools of light across marble that looked like frozen ocean swells—white-veined, cool-toned, perfect. Granite along the outer counter caught the soft glow like dark glass. Savannah finished rinsing a glass until it squeaked under her palm.   She wiped the rim twice—habit, not anxiety—then set it upside down on a drying mat with the other clean things that had already found their places. The smell in the kitchen had changed since earlier: still faintly there if you knew where to look for it—smoked spices, roasted peppers, something tangy that clung to the air like a memory—but mostly it was soap now. Citrus and clean. The scent of a day being put away.   She dragged the cloth along the counter in slow, deliberate strokes, watching the moisture vanish, watching the surface return to that showroom shine. Every swipe felt like a small promise: we made it through today. We’re safe. We’re reset.   She glanced toward the iPad on the island—dark screen, sleeping. The nanny cam had been her anchor all evening, the quiet reassurance that Paul was tucked in, that the house was behaving, that she could breathe without listening for every tiny shift.   Savannah exhaled and reached under the sink for the garbage bag.   The plastic rustled as she pulled it free—heavier than she expected, tied tight at the top. She carried it one-handed the way Mama Kim taught her: confident, no fuss, like you were hauling out problems instead of trash. She padded down the short hall to the laundry room off the kitchen, the tile colder here, the shadows deeper. The washer and dryer sat like two silent sentinels, reflecting faint light.   She paused at the back door, hand on the knob.   I’ll take it out before the movies tomorrow, she thought—before they left. Before the day had a chance to get away from them. —and that’s when she heard it.     A LOUD THUD. Then a CRASH.     Not outside. Inside.   Savannah froze for half a heartbeat, the cold air on her arms sharpening every nerve. And then the words—raw, immediate, punched out through a tiny speaker sitting in the kicthen: “FUCK ME, that really… really hurt.” The last two words carried something softer behind them—a tiny, involuntary sob that made Savannah’s chest tighten instantly.   Paul.   Her body moved before her mind finished catching up. Savannah  bolted through the kitchen, bare feet slapping tile, then rug, then hardwood. She took the stairs two at a time, not panicked the way a frantic babysitter might be, but fast—purposeful. At the top of the stairs, Paul’s bedroom door stood slightly open. Light spilled out. Savannah stepped in and took the scene in one breath.       Paul was on the floor again. This time he’d fallen out on the right side—nearest the nightstand—and the aftermath looked small but loud: the alarm clock face-down on the carpet, its digits still glowing; a book knocked half-open; a coaster; a couple of little things that had lived quietly on the nightstand now scattered like the room had startled. Paul sat half-slumped, legs bent awkwardly, one hand pressed hard to the back of his head. His face was tight with pain and humiliation, the kind that wasn’t dramatic but was heavy—adult pride bruised in the same instant his body was.   Savannah didn’t rush him like a panicked parent. But her voice came out soft with urgency under it, like velvet over steel.   “Oh, Paul… sweet boy,” she said, closing the distance quickly and dropping to her knees beside him. “Did you fall outta bed again?”   Paul’s eyes flashed up to hers—mortified, watery, trying to pull himself together and failing in small ways he hated.   “—I’m sorry,” he blurted, and then the apology cracked. A small cry snuck through it, mixed with a hiccup he didn’t mean to make. “Oh, Savvy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—again. It’s just, I… I was—”   “Dreamin’,” Savannah finished gently, not because she was guessing, but because she’d seen it in his eyes—the way his mind was still half in another place.   Paul nodded, swallowing hard.   Savannah reached carefully, palms open, offering help without yanking him anywhere. “Okay, honey. Come here. Let’s get you sittin’ up.”   She braced him at the shoulder and under the arm, guiding him upright the way you would someone you respected—someone you didn’t want to make feel smaller just because they’d slipped. Paul winced and kept his hand at the back of his head, already anticipating the bump he’d feel tomorrow.   Savannah’s own worry tightened, but she kept her face steady.   “Alright,” she murmured, voice low. “Talk to me. What are you dreamin’ about that’s got you rollin’ right outta bed and gettin’ ouchies—especially back there?”   Paul blinked, his mind visibly scrambling.   It was like he was searching through fog for something solid to hold onto. Ever since he’d tumbled out of Martina’s bed at the start of the week, sleep had become… strange. Not restful enough. Not safe. Dreams that weren’t stories so much as sensations: running, falling, the world blurring past him too fast to name.   “I—” Paul’s mouth opened and closed once, like he was embarrassed by the emptiness. “Me… I… I don’t know why, Savvy.” The honesty landed like defeat.   Savannah’s expression softened into a smile that carried worry behind it, like a lamp with a shadow.   “That’s okay,” she said quietly. “It don’t gotta make sense right now.”   She leaned forward and pulled him into a hug—not tight, not trapping—just enough to tell his nervous system, I’m here. You’re not alone. She tipped her head and pressed a careful kiss to the back of his head, right over the tender spot, like sealing a bandage with warmth.   Paul let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it since dinner.   “Alright,” Savannah said, easing back but keeping one hand on his shoulder so he didn’t drift. “Let’s get you sorted before bed… again.”   Paul gave a small, embarrassed laugh that barely existed, more air than sound. Savannah rose first and offered him her hand. He took it. She helped him to his feet, eyes scanning him the way you’d scan someone after a fall—quick, discreet, checking for anything worse without turning it into a production.She then pressed her hand up against his bottom before squeezing the front of his oneise as well, satisfied with the dry but noisy crinkles she smiled by saying “Good job you're still dry sweetie, let's clean this mess up.   “You with me?” she asked.   He nodded.   “Good,” she said. “Good job.”   She glanced at the nightstand and the scattered pieces.   “Let’s clean this mess up.”   Together—because Savannah didn’t do things to Paul, she did them with him—they set the alarm clock back upright, gathered the small objects, and straightened the book. Paul’s movements were careful, a little stiff, but steadier than his earlier embarrassment suggested. He was trying. He wanted to be capable. He wanted her to see that he could recover, not crumble. Savannah clocked the effort and filed it away like a treasure: There you are, big side. Still here.   Paul turned toward the bed as if the moment was done, as if he could just climb back in and pretend the last two tumbles were nothing.   Savannah’s voice stopped him—not sharp, but sure. “Hold up, sweetheart.”   Paul paused mid-step, confused. “Savvy, what…?”   Savannah didn’t answer immediately. She moved with quiet intention—straightened the covers, smoothed the sheets, tugged the top blanket back into place. Then she grabbed pillows—she stuffed tow of them under Paul’s left arm—and took the remaining two under her’s. Paul stared at her like he was watching someone build a fence around him.   “Savvy…?” he tried again, softer this time.   Savannah came back to him and, with a tenderness that didn’t ask permission from his anxiety, slipped his paci into his mouth—simple, familiar, grounding. Not a punishment. Not a performance. A reset button for a body that had been running too hot.   Paul’s jaw tightened for half a second. Then his mouth accepted it.   And in that tiny acceptance, both sides of him stopped fighting long enough to breathe. Savannah took his hand.   “Come on,” she said gently, and led him out of his bedroom.   Across the hall. Into the guest room.   The posh suite Lilly had shown Savannah earlier looked different now at midnight—more intimate, less like a hotel and more like a nest. The light was soft, the bedding plush and inviting, the air faintly scented with clean linen and that lingering lavender-baby-powder memory Savannah couldn’t stop associating with Paul’s recovery. The room felt like a pause button.   Paul stood in the doorway, blinking, trying to compute. Savannah turned to him, voice apologetic but firm.   “Sorry, sweetie,” she said. “But that’s twice in less than three hours. I don’t wanna wake up to a third time, okay?” She tilted her head, the way Mama Kim did when she was about to lay down a rule wrapped in love. “So just for tonight… we are gonna be bed buddies.”   Paul’s eyes widened. And inside him, both sides reacted at once.   His little side lit up instantly—bed buddies!—pure comfort, pure safety, the part of him that wanted to be held without the shame of asking. His big side, though—seventeen, hormones unpredictable, heart still bruised from everything—flared with a hot, nervous embarrassment that wasn’t sexual so much as too aware: aware of her closeness, aware of his body, aware of what it meant to share space with someone he trusted this much. The big side didn’t want to ruin anything. Didn’t want to be weird. Didn’t want to be the reason she regretted offering comfort.   His throat bobbed.   Savannah guided him toward the left side of the bed, closest to the window. She checked the nightstand on the right, like she was mapping the room for safety. Then she pulled back the covers and patted the mattress twice, inviting him in.   Paul climbed in.   Savannah tucked the first sheet over him, then tucked him in again—careful, practiced, the way you’d tuck in someone you loved and didn’t want to lose to the night. Paul watched her hands, watched how certain she was, watched how she didn’t hesitate.   It made something in him unclench.   Savannah placed all four of pillows beside the bed too—another landing zone, another quiet promise that if his body betrayed him again, it wouldn’t be catastrophic. It would just be… handled. Then she slid into bed from the right side and positioned herself close.   Not on top of him. Not crowding. Just present.   She wrapped her arms around his chest like a safety strap—snug enough to anchor him, loose enough to respect him. Spooning, yes, but the posture held no heat—only protection. Only shelter.   Paul stiffened for half a second. Then his body melted backward into her like it had been waiting all week for permission. Savannah pressed her lips to the back of his head again, over the bump, gentle as a blessing.   “You're in good hands now,” she whispered. “Good night, my sweet boy.”   Paul’s paci found rhythm—slow, steady, the sound turning into a metronome that quieted his thoughts. His stress drained in small increments, not magically, but honestly—like breath returning after a long hold.   “Nigh-night, Savvy,” he mumbled.   His little side sighed with contentment. His big side stayed shocked—but not panicked now. Shocked in the way you are when you realize something you’ve been craving is actually safe: closeness without consequence. Care without strings. A person who can hold you without taking you.   Paul’s eyes fluttered shut.   Savannah’s eyes did too, not immediately—she lingered, watching the last traces of tension leave his face as sleep claimed him. Her smile was quiet, protective, edged with something she didn’t name yet.   Saturday would come soon—unrushed, forgiving, full of small moments—and she intended to meet it the same way she’d met tonight: steady hands, open heart, and space enough for him to grow.