Baby Talk

Gwen turned him around so he was facing her, and the look on her face was one he hadn't seen before. It had turned from anger to sadness... and disappointment... which was somehow worse. She reached out and stroked his cheek, tucking a stray hair behind his ear. "You say that, baby, but Mommy can't trust you, and you just keep proving her right. Now, let's get you dressed." Gwen took her time putting a new diaper on him, gently rubbing some cream on to where she had spanked. It stung briefly, but dulled the pain. All of her actions were so confusing! One moment she was viciously spanking him, the next she was comforting him!  She taped the new diaper up and got another set of clothes out, a very babyish onesie, with obvious crotch snaps, a pair of shorts that did nothing to hide his diaper.. and two thick mittens that made it impossible for him to do anything more than grip lightly, the sleeves of the onesie were also designed to restrict his movement. Then came the booties, again. And finally the pacifier gag.  Gwen... Miss Bernardino... Mommy.. was quick but not rough, babytalking to him as she dressed him, still looking slightly sad. James was having so many big feelings and they were all conflicting! It made him just cry more... just like a baby.  

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Here we go, the second half of Chapter 100 in full. Heading to bed to get some earned rest.  To the next 100 Chapters ofd Volume One STILL to come. Chapter One-Hundred: Part 3 The sun had shifted by the time they made it back to the Range Rover. Not lower—higher—as if the whole day had quietly kept moving forward without asking anyone’s permission. Lilly shut the driver’s door with a firm, practiced click, like sealing the clinic behind them. The diaper bag—evergreen corduroy, heavier than it had any business being—landed in the back seat with a soft thud. Lilly caught herself looking at it in the rearview mirror like it was a third passenger. Paul tugged at the hem of his shortalls, the fabric stiff in a way that still made him feel… dressed up wrong. Too young. Too visible. He stared out the window, jaw tight, and for a heartbeat Lilly worried the crash was coming. The kind that used to swallow him whole. The kind that left him trembling and frantic and reaching for anything that could make the world smaller again. But then— Paul reached over and turned the radio knob. A few beats of static. A quick shuffle. And then the opening hit—bright, fast, unmistakable—like someone had cracked open a time capsule and let the sunlight spill out. Mmmbop, ba duba dop… Paul’s head snapped toward the speakers like he’d been waiting for it. Lilly blinked. And then, without thinking—without planning it, without controlling it—Paul started singing. Not quiet. Not embarrassed. Full voice, cracked a little, but real. Paul had a decent voice but wasn’t a triple threat in the theater world—he didn’t sing like someone trained. He sang like someone who needed the sound to push the shame out of his chest. “Mmmbop, ba duba dop—” It came out loud enough that Lilly felt it vibrate through the car. Lilly stared at him for half a second, stunned by the audacity of his joy. Then she laughed—one sharp burst that escaped her chest before she could catch it—and joined in like she’d been waiting her whole life for permission. “Ba du bop, ba du dop—” The road opened up ahead of them—bright Florida sky, palm fronds swaying in lazy rhythm, the heat outside shimmering like a mirage. Inside the car, the music filled every corner where shame had been sitting. Paul’s shoulders loosened. His hands—those hands that had been clenched so tight in the movement lab—were tapping the beat on his thigh now. Lilly sang louder just to match him, because God— she realized it in a flash that made her chest ache with relief: He’s bouncing back. He’s actually bouncing back. Lilly kept her eyes on the road, but her thoughts spilled in quietly anyway, the way they always did when she couldn’t sleep—only now they came with warmth instead of panic. That incident… in the clinic… That would’ve destroyed him weeks ago. A month ago, Paul would’ve spiraled so hard he’d be begging—pleading—for anything that could numb the humiliation. A pacifier. A bottle. Anything to make the world stop being too big and too loud and too unforgiving. Today? Today he’d cried—yes. Just a few tears. A trembling breath. A shaky moment where he’d looked at her like he was waiting for anger. Like he still believed anger was what he deserved. But then—He’d grounded. He’d swallowed. He’d let her help. He’d taken the change, the clothes, the reset—without collapsing into it like a drowning man. And Lilly hadn’t missed what that meant. It wasn’t that he didn’t need comfort. It was that he was learning he could survive without losing himself. That he could be cared for without being erased. Beside her, Paul hit the chorus again with dramatic, terrible passion, his voice rising and breaking like he was on stage, like he was doing it on purpose, like he was performing joy so the universe couldn’t take it away again. “Mmmbop, ba duba dop…” Lilly joined him again—louder this time, more reckless. Her voice wasn’t perfect. But it was free. And something about that scared her, because Lilly Goldhawk didn’t do free.  She did curated. She did composed. She did controlled. But right now? Right now she was belting nonsense syllables with her stepson in a Range Rover that still smelled faintly of baby powder and the late autumn sea air. And the joy was so real it made her chest ache. Her mind drifted—uninvited, but honest—to Savannah. Her voice careful. Earnest. Not performing kindness. Offering it like it was a choice she’d made deliberately. Lilly’s lips pressed together, thoughtful. Whatever happened at Kim’s four weeks ago… it had changed something. Not just in Paul. Not just in Savannah. It had shifted the entire orbit of the people around him. Savannah had looked at Paul like he mattered. And Lilly had seen Paul’s face—just for a second—light up when Savannah asked. Not the big grin he used to fake for everyone. Something smaller. Something private. Something that felt like hope. And then the song hit the line that felt like it had been written for them, even if it hadn’t. “You have so many relationships in this life…” Lilly’s fingers tightened on the wheel. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Relationships. Connections. People. The thing Paul had been losing without meaning to. The thing she’d been trying to replace with structure and routine and schedules and a diaper bag that weighed too much. Then aanother thought crossed, crystal clear if Lilly didn’t know any better after she said yes to her…She almost wondered if Savannah was a little smitten. Which was ridiculous. Savannah was headed toward a PhD, a career, and a future all sharp edges and ambition. Paul was… staying here. Healing. Stabilizing as..... Her sweet boy. The thought slid into her mind so naturally it didn’t even feel like a choice. And then it landed. Sweet boy. Lilly’s hands tightened on the wheel. She felt the thought hit her like a soft shock. She swallowed, stunned by herself. Did she just think that? But like the honest to God’s truth. Sweet boy. She thought it again and her chest warmed with it. And that warmth scared her almost as much as it comforted her. Paul, meanwhile, was still singing—still alive in the moment—but his mind wasn’t empty either. It never was. Under the music, under the laughter, under the way the wind hit the windows like freedom… He was thinking too. He stared out at the passing palm trees and felt something settle in his chest. The day started messy. But it didn’t end there. Because Nia didn’t look at him like he was fragile. She looked at him like he was an athlete with a training plan. A guy who could work. A guy who could build strength back. And when she’d rubbed his back and told him it was okay…it hadn’t felt like being babied. It had felt like being coached through something hard. And Savannah… Savannah was going to hang out with him. Not out of obligation. Not out of pity. Because she wanted to. Because she’d asked. He could still hear her voice in his head—careful, respectful, brave. If you ever needed someone… I could watch him for you. Paul’s cheeks warmed at the memory, but not from shame this time. From something tender. Something dangerous? Sure, there’d be diapers. Sure, there’d be rules and schedules and changes and soft voices. But Savannah knew him. She got him. He imagined her sitting on the couch with him, teasing him about his taste in music, stealing his snacks, making him read out loud again just to hear him do the voices.And his little side—quiet, hopeful, barely daring to speak—whispered: Maybe she could rock us… Paul’s breath caught. His big side flinched at the thought like it was too intimate to even exist. But the anticipation curled in his stomach anyway, soft and shivering. Maybe. Only if he needed it. Only if she wanted to. He liked being her little boy. Paul froze inside himself. His smile flickered. His stomach flipped. Wait— Did he just think that? I liked being her little boy.  He swallowed, cheeks warming behind his aviators, and turned the music up like volume could drown out the truth of it. But it didn’t. The truth stayed. Soft. Terrifying. Comforting. And as the next chorus hit, Paul sang again—loud and bright and alive— “Mmmbop, ba duba dop…” —and Lilly joined him. He swallowed hard and turned the music up a little louder, like volume could drown out how much he wanted to be held without feeling ashamed for it. Lilly glanced at him again, catching the way his smile softened at nothing. The city shifted around them as they drove—Jacksonville stretching wide and sunlit, palms and powerlines, little pockets of life stitched together by heat and movement. The farther they got from the clinic, the more the world changed shape. Less sterile. Less pastel. Less… pediatric. And then, like a film cut, the atmosphere changed again. La Villa. Historic, layered, quietly proud. A neighborhood that didn’t scream for attention the way the beaches did—no neon tourist glow, no plastic perfection. This part of Jacksonville held its history like a well-worn book: textured brick, iron details, old storefronts with modern signage, and streets that felt like they’d seen a hundred versions of the same people trying to start over. The air here smelled different too—less ocean-salt and sunscreen, more citrus and grilled something, faint tobacco on the breeze from someone’s patio a block away. The kind of place where the past wasn’t a museum. It was still living. Lilly pulled in near the restaurant, the Range Rover’s engine purring like it belonged anywhere it wanted. Paul stepped out carefully, one hand instinctively adjusting his straps like he could make himself look older just by touching them. He followed Lilly along the sidewalk. And then he saw it. OTHELLO. The building was white stucco with a soft, old-world curve to its roofline—like it had been shaped by time and sun and stubbornness. Bold black lettering across the front. A clean arched doorway framed in dark trim. Two windows like watchful eyes on either side, reflecting the street back in warped little slices. But it was the patio that drew the breath out of him. Not fancy. Not loud. Just… inviting. Wooden decking underfoot. A canopy stretched overhead like a sail, catching the light and throwing soft shadows across the tables. Heat lamps stood like tall, quiet sentinels along the wall—unnecessary in this warmth, but there anyway, promising comfort when the day or night cooled. String lights hung in loose, casual lines, unlit for now but still romantic in the daylight. It felt like a space designed for conversation. For people to stay longer than they planned. And at one of the tables, already settled like she belonged to the scene, sat Martina. A gin and tonic waited beside her hand, the condensation making a small wet halo on the table. The glass caught the sunlight, pale and sharp, and the lime wedge perched like a detail she’d chosen deliberately. Her old-world Spanish and Cuban elegance—fashion-forward without chasing trends, the kind of woman who didn’t need to prove she had taste because she was taste. Her blouse draped like it had been made for her shoulders specifically. Her jewelry wasn’t loud, but it was intentional—gold that looked warm against her skin, like sunlight had chosen to stay. She was reading a hardcover book—“Et viva la vida !”—held open with the ease of someone who’d always been comfortable in her own company. Her reading glasses were sleek, modern, lightly tinted a seafoam blue with delicate swirls of gold and white—like something both artistic and expensive, like she’d picked them not just to see, but to be seen. Martina looked up. And for a heartbeat, she only saw Lilly. Stylish as always. Composed as always. The kind of woman who walked like the world would make room. Martina’s smile began. Then her gaze shifted. To Paul. And something in Martina’s chest thumped once—hard, quiet, involuntary. Because Paul was walking beside Lilly like this, in those shortalls, hit her like a memory she hadn’t asked for but cherished all the same. A version of him where overalls were just as necessary as breathing. Underwear, Ups or Pampers it didn’t matter. They meant safe. Martina’s expression softened without permission, as she lifted her hand in a gentle wave. Lilly waved back, bright and easy. Paul lifted his hand too—but not as high. Not as confident. But the thought was there. And Martina saw it. She stood as they reached the table, her movement graceful, effortless. She hugged Lilly first—firm, warm, familiar. The kind of hug that said: I see you. I know you. I’ve been waiting. Then she hugged Paul. She didn’t coo. She didn’t do the sing-song thing people kept doing lately like he might shatter if they spoke normally. She just held him—briefly, sincerely—and let go with a soft pat to his shoulder like he was a young man she respected. “Mi amor,” she murmured, her voice low and rich. “Look at you.” Paul swallowed, unsure what to do with that. Praise still made him nervous. Like it came with expectations. But Martina’s praise didn’t feel like pressure.. They sat. Lilly angled her chair with practiced elegance, slipping into the patio scene like she’d been part of it all along. Paul sat more carefully, still hyper-aware of his body, of how the straps pulled when he leaned forward, of how the air felt against his calves. But the diaper bag wasn’t here. Lilly had left it in the car. And Paul didn’t realize how much that mattered until the relief hit him like a wave. I can just be… a person for a minute. A male waiter approached—mid-twenties, Puerto Rican, with an easy smile and a calm confidence like he’d worked enough tables to know exactly how to read a mood without disturbing it. “Good afternoon,” he said warmly. “Welcome to Othello. My name’s Mateo—I’ll be taking care of you today.” Martina smiled at him like they’d spoken before. Lilly returned the smile like she was collecting good service for later. Paul stayed quiet, watching, absorbing. Mateo lifted his notepad. “Can I start you off with drinks?” Martina gestured lightly to her glass. “Already started, cariño.” Mateo chuckled. “I see that.” Lilly didn’t even hesitate. “NO SEEDS, NO STEMS,” she said, crisp and specific, like the name itself was a spell she’d mastered. “ The Thirteen St. George green chile vodka, jalapeño-cilantro syrup, pineapple, mint, cava. Please” Mateo’s eyebrows rose—impressed. “Absolutely.” Then his gaze moved to Paul. And Paul felt it. That tiny pause. That half-second of assessment. Not rude. Not judgmental. Just… human. And Paul’s nervous system, already tired from the morning, reacted like it always did. A tightness in his chest. A creeping heat behind his ears. A whisper of anxiety that didn’t need a reason to arrive. “For you, sir?” Mateo asked. Paul’s throat tightened, but he held it. He held his posture. He didn’t shrink. He didn’t look at Lilly for rescue. He answered. “Ummm...yes I’ll have the St. Agrestis Phony Negroni,” he said, voice steady. Mateo nodded like that was the most normal thing in the world. “Great choice.” And Lilly—like she couldn’t help herself—added quickly, “And two sparkling waters as well, please.” Mateo wrote it down, smile still easy. “Of course. I’ll be right back.” When he walked away, the table settled into that quiet space after a small test. Martina watched Paul closely. Not staring. Just… noticing. “You’re in good spirits,” she said softly. Paul surprised himself by nodding. “Yeah.” A pause. “It’s been… a better than okay day.” He didn’t say why. But Martina didn’t push. She just smiled like she understood what he wasn’t saying. And Lilly’s heart tightened, because she did understand. Paul’s progress wasn’t loud. It was inch by inch. Like Bryan had said. But today…Today felt like a foot. Paul glanced down at the table, the sunlight striping across the wood. I’m moving forward. He let himself feel it for one second. Then the food began to arrive. Not all at once—thank God. But in waves, like the meal had pacing. Like the restaurant respected anticipation. First: CUCUMBER SALAD—thin ribbons of cucumber and fennel, bright and crisp, scattered with sesame like tiny seeds of something delicate. The preserved lemon vinaigrette smelled sharp and clean, the kind of scent that made your mouth wake up. Then: SEARED OCTOPUS—edges charred just enough to look dangerous, nestled beside ezme and cannellini beans like it belonged in a painting. The aroma was smoky and rich, the kind of food that made you feel like you were somewhere older than Florida, somewhere with stone streets and slow evenings. Then: ROASTED HALF CHICKEN—glossed and golden, sitting in a shallow pool of saffron jus, topped with raisin onion tfaya and toasted almonds. Couscous beside it, fluffy and warm, like a soft landing. The spread wasn’t just mouthwatering. It was alive. It smelled like care. Like craft. Like someone had touched every ingredient with intention. Martina’s eyes shone—not because she was showing off, but because she loved this. Loved the way food could change a room. Loved the way it made people quiet for a moment and then open. Paul took a bite of the cucumber salad and felt the crunch snap through him like relief. Cold. Bright. Real. He ate slower than the women, but he ate. And Martina noticed that too. The lunch conversation flowed mostly between Lilly and Martina—not excluding Paul, but giving him space the way you give someone space when you want them to breathe. Martina leaned in slightly, voice warm. “So. Tell me again what Hilary said.” Lilly smiled like she’d been waiting to talk about this. “She said your food is ridiculous. In the best way.” Martina’s laugh was soft, pleased. “Of course she did.” “She raved,” Lilly continued, and her tone shifted into that PR-polished imitation. “‘Martina’s food tastes like community. Like family. Like the kind of thing you build a brand around.’” Martina’s face softened at that—pride and hunger mixing together. Not hunger for fame. Hunger for connection. “That’s what I want,” Martina admitted quietly. “Not just followers. Not just numbers. I want people to feel like they belong. Like they can come here and—” she gestured around the patio, the canopy shadows, the warmth— “be held for a minute.” Lilly’s expression changed. Not influencer-bright. Real. “I love that,” she said, almost reverent. “I love that. We can build that.” Martina’s ambition flickered bright behind her eyes. “I want the reel to feel… cinematic. Like a love letter. Not like an ad.” “Yes,” Lilly breathed. “Exactly.” Paul listened, chewing slowly, watching them build something in real time. It struck him—quietly, deeply—that this was what grown women did when they weren’t just surviving. Martina tilted her head. “When can you shoot?” Lilly didn’t even think. “Friday.” Martina blinked. “Friday?” Lilly smiled. “Your already at the house anyway.” Martina’s brows lifted. “And Paul?” Paul paused mid-bite. Lilly’s voice softened. “We can work with him. Or—if you’d like—I can bring Harley in for an hour or two.” Paul’s jaw tightened slightly at the name, but he didn’t spiral. He didn’t shut down. He just… kept breathing. Martina’s gaze flicked to him, subtle and careful. “Only if he’s comfortable.” Paul surprised himself again by nodding once. Small. Controlled. “I’m okay,” he said. “I can help or just watch.” And Lilly’s heart did that thing again—tightening, warming, breaking open a little. Because he didn’t say it like a kid trying to please. He said it like a person trying to participate in his own life. “Of course you can, I was just thinking out loud. Then we’ll make sure you get your name credited in the cast reel at the end then.” Lilly’s tone was genuine and honest, Paul couldn’t help but nod his head in agreement. Lilly’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen, then set it on the table and hit speaker. “Hilary.” Hilary’s voice came through bright and businesslike. “Okay—don’t panic, but the podcast re-shoot has been moved up thirty minutes. Can you make it?” Martina nodded immediately, like she was giving Lilly permission without words. Lilly exhaled. “Yes. I can make it.” “Perfect,” Hilary said. “Love you. Don’t be late.” The call ended. The moment shifted. Not sad. Just… transitional. Martina reached across the table and gently patted Paul’s hand. Proud. Warm. Present. “You ate almost half the salad yourself,” she said, impressed. “Muy bien.” Paul blinked, then smiled a little. “Thanks.” “And,” Martina added, voice light but sure, “you’re coming with me to do some shopping for dinner with Amber later tonight.” Paul’s first instinct was panic. A flicker of I can’t— But it didn’t take over. He didn’t lose it. Instead, he felt something steadier rise up. He nodded. “Okay,” he said, surprising even himself. “I can go shopping and help.” Lilly’s throat tightened. She leaned over and kissed his cheek—quick, soft, affectionate in a way that didn’t perform. “I’m proud of you,” she murmured. Paul’s face warmed, but he didn’t pull away. Soon enough, all three of them were moving through the restaurant, stepping out into the brightness near the parking lot. Lilly did a discreet check—so subtle no one else would notice—and when she saw what she needed to see, relief softened her shoulders. Dry. She leaned in close to Martina as they approached the cars and murmured, low and private, “He’s been dry.” Martina’s face lit with quiet joy, like she’d been handed good news she didn’t know she needed. “Gracias a Dios,” she whispered. Martina’s car waited nearby—a 2015 Volvo S60, deep metallic burgundy, clean and understated, like her. Not flashy. Just solid. Martina opened the passenger door for Paul with an easy gesture. Paul climbed into the front seat, the leather cool against the backs of his legs, the seatbelt clicking like punctuation. Lilly stood by the trunk of the Rover, and Paul watched her for a second, confused by the way she moved. Not rushed. Not frantic. But… deliberate. First she handed Martina the diaper bag. Normal, well normal enough for Paul and those in his circle.  Then she handed her another bag........ A large backpack Paul had never seen before. Black fabric, but covered in bright, playful DC cartoon superheroes—Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, Hawkgirl, Supergirl & Aquaman scattered across it like a cartoon blanket. Even Krypto was there, smiling like this was supposed to be fun. The zippers had little rubbery pulls that looked easy to grab with small hands. The straps were padded. The whole thing looked… new. Paul stared at it. His throat tightened. He turned his head slowly toward Lilly, confusion written all over his face. Lilly didn’t explain. She just looked at him—soft, steady—and gave him the kind of smile that said: I’m not ashamed of loving you like this. Before she blew him a kiss and proceeded to drive off to her next shoot. Martina placed both bags gently in the back seat. She saw the confusion on Paul’s face and leaned in, voice warm, a little playful, a little motherly, slipping into Spanish like it was a blanket she could wrap around him without making him flinch. “No te preocupes, mi amor,” she said. Don’t worry, honey. Then, softer, with a wink that made it feel like a secret between them: “Lilly’s just packed you some extra love and fun.” Paul blinked hard behind his sunglasses. Because the words hit him like something both sweet and terrifying. Extra love. The air smelled different here. Not just salt and sun anymore, but dust and metal and something faintly sweet—like warm tobacco lingering in the memory of buildings that used to breathe it. Martina parked with practiced ease, one hand on the wheel, the other steadying the shopping list in her lap like it was scripture. Paul sat beside her, quiet in the passenger seat, sunglasses still on even though the light had softened. He’d been doing that lately—hiding his eyes when his emotions felt too close to the surface. The moment the engine clicked off, Martina turned toward him.  “We’re going to get everything fresh,” she said, voice smooth and decisive. “No shortcuts. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.” Paul nodded once, swallowing. He didn’t want to admit how much he needed someone else to sound certain right now. Because inside him—under the good mood, under the music, under the small victories—there was still that constant tremor. The fear that he was one wrong moment away from falling apart again. He adjusted the strap of the diaper bag when Martina handed it over—then realized she wasn’t handing it to him to carry. She was placing it in the cart. In the front basket. Right where a baby or todler would sit. Paul’s stomach tightened at the sight, a flicker of instinctive humiliation—Then he forced it down. Martina’s hand patted his arm once—brief, warm, like punctuation. “Come,” she said. “We have a stew to build.” And then they turned toward the building. It rose in front of them like something sacred and industrial at the same time. El Modelo Cigar Manufacturing Co. Massive. Historic. Brick and iron and old Florida ambition. The exterior carried that restored grandeur—arched windows, bold signage, the kind of structure that made you feel small even before you stepped inside. There were hints of modern life layered over the bones of the past: clean lighting, crisp pathways, people moving in and out with tote bags and iced coffees like the building hadn’t once been filled with workers and smoke and the constant rhythm of production. Paul stared up at it. He’d seen buildings like this in movies. But standing in front of it—feeling the weight of it—was different. It wasn’t just big. It was loud in a silent way. Like history had a voice even when no one spoke. Martina pushed the cart forward. The wheels rattled softly against the pavement, and Paul followed beside her, hands shoved into his pockets like he was trying to keep himself anchored in his own body. Then they went inside. And the world changed. The air hit first. Warm, dense, layered with scent—fresh bread, roasted coffee, citrus, fried dough, garlic, perfume, sweat, tobacco wood baked into the walls from decades ago. It was like stepping into a living organism. The ceiling soared high above them, wooden beams stretched like ribs, industrial lights hanging down in neat rows that made the space glow without ever feeling soft. The floorboards looked old enough to remember every footstep that had ever crossed them. The interior was gorgeous in that raw, reclaimed way—brick walls, dark wood, heavy history polished into something modern. And it was packed. Not “busy.” Not “crowded.” Packed. A full-blown indoor farmer’s market sprawled across the main floor like a festival that had exploded and never stopped. Stalls lined up in rows—local vendors, Cuban influence everywhere, flags and signage and music drifting through the air in bursts. Someone was laughing too loudly near a stand selling guava pastries. A baby was crying somewhere to the left. A man was calling out prices in Spanish. The clink of glass bottles. The scrape of metal tongs. The chatter of strangers who all sounded like they belonged. Paul’s senses caught on everything at once. The brightness. The noise. The movement. The smell of oranges mixing with meat and coffee. His nervous system didn’t know what to grab first. He could feel his tracker in his mind even without looking at it—like a phantom screen hovering behind his ribs. Green… green… stay green— His chest tightened. Not panic yet. But close enough that he felt the edge. Martina noticed. Of course she did. She didn’t stop the cart. She didn’t turn it into a scene. She just adjusted her pace—slower, steadier—like she was silently telling his body: Match me. Not the chaos. Paul exhaled through his nose, forcing his shoulders down. Then a man bumped the cart slightly while passing, muttering an apology, and Paul flinched hard enough that his stomach dipped. Martina’s hand lifted immediately, palm hovering near his back—not touching, not crowding. A quiet anchor.Paul swallowed again. He hated that he needed anchors. He hated that the world could still feel too sharp. But he also—somewhere deep down—felt something else. Gratitude. “Okay,” Martina said, voice firm, pulling a folded paper list from her purse. “We are not wandering. We are hunting.” Paul blinked. “Hunting?” Martina gave him a look over her glasses. “Yes. Focus. You will thank me later.” Paul’s lips twitched despite himself. Martina pointed the cart forward like a ship captain. “Tonight,” she announced, like she was unveiling a masterpiece, “we are making Lentejas con Chorizo.” Martina kept going, voice proud and almost playful now. “The classic version,” she said. “Brown lentils. Spanish chorizo. Garlic. Onions. Peppers. And we will do carrots and potatoes because your body needs real food, not those little influencer snacks Lilly pretends are meals.” Paul let out a short laugh. Then stopped himself, like laughing too freely might cost him something. Martina didn’t miss that either. She softened her tone just a touch. “We’re going to make it rich,” she continued, “but not heavy. Comforting. Balanced. Something that sits in your stomach like a blanket.” Paul’s throat tightened at the word blanket. His little side perked up at it instinctively, like a dog hearing a familiar whistle. His big side immediately bristled. Don’t. Don’t go there. Not here. Not now. Martina turned the list toward him. “Look,” she said. “We need—” And she began counting them off, tapping each item like she was building a spell: “Fresh produce. We need onions—yellow, not white. Garlic, lots. Red bell peppers. Green bell peppers. Carrots. Potatoes.” She steered the cart past a stall overflowing with citrus. “And fruits,” she added, “because I saw you eating that salad today like a civilized human being and I refuse to let you go backward.” Paul blinked at that. Not offended. Just… caught. Because it was such a Martina thing to say. Sharp honesty wrapped in love. Martina scanned the fruit stand like a general inspecting troops. “Oranges,” she decided. “Clementines. Bananas. Maybe pears. And we’ll get limes because everything tastes better with lime, and I will fight anyone who disagrees.” Paul’s mouth curved again, small and real. Martina’s eyes flicked to him, satisfied. She kept going, rolling right into the next category: “Meat,” she said, tone shifting back into business. “Spanish chorizo—real chorizo, not that sad grocery-store tube. If we find smoked paprika chorizo, we take it. If we find mild and spicy, we take both.” Paul’s stomach growled softly, and he hated how obvious it was. Martina smiled like she knew exactly what that meant. “And,” she continued, “we need broth. We need bay leaves. We need cumin. Smoked paprika. Salt. Pepper. Olive oil.” She paused, eyes narrowing like she’d just remembered something important. “And bread,” she added, almost reverent. “Good bread. The kind you tear with your hands.” Paul nodded, but his eyes were drifting again—taking in the chaos, the movement, the way people flowed around them like water. He could feel the overload trying to creep back in. A vendor shouted something in Spanish and laughed. A child darted between legs, squealing. Someone dropped a jar and glass shattered somewhere in the distance— And then— Color caught his eye. Bright wrappers. Glass jars filled with sugar like jewels. Candy stacked in neat, impossible towers—pink and green and amber and powdered white. Cuban candy. The kind that looked like it belonged in a storybook. Paul’s little side lit up so fast it almost startled him. Not logic. Not fear. Just want. Just look. His feet moved before his brain fully caught up. One step. Two. Just enough to get closer— Just enough to smell the sweetness—Just enough to feel the spell of it. “Paul.” Martina’s voice. Not loud. Not angry. But sharp enough to cut through the haze. Paul froze mid-step, like someone had snapped a rubber band against his wrist. He blinked. Reality poured back in. He turned his head. Martina stood by the cart, eyebrow raised, lips pressed like a mother who didn’t have time for nonsense. Paul’s cheeks warmed. “Sorry,” he muttered, walking back quickly. “I just… saw—” “I know what you saw,” Martina said, steering the cart forward again. “And you will see it again later. With me.” Paul swallowed. His big side tried to regain its posture. His little side sulked for half a second. And Martina—like she understood both—kept them moving. They passed stalls with fresh herbs and hanging strings of dried peppers. Tables covered in mangoes and plantains. A butcher counter where the smell of meat and spice rose like heat. Paul stayed close. He really tried. But the market didn’t slow down for his nervous system. It kept throwing things at him. Noise. Laughter. Music. Hands waving. A sudden burst of clapping— Paul’s head snapped toward it. The sound wasn’t just loud. It was rhythmic. Happy. Like applause. Like play. His little side leaned toward it instinctively, like a magnet pulling him. Martina was scanning tomatoes, picking them up one by one, judging them like she was choosing diamonds. Paul took a step away. Then another. The clapping grew louder. He followed it like a string tied around his chest. And then he saw it—A street performer in the middle of the aisle, juggling bright fruit like it was nothing. Oranges flipping through the air. A lime tossed high, caught behind his back. People laughing, phones out, kids squealing. Paul’s heart lifted. Not in an adult way. In a pure, childlike way. Like his body forgot to be afraid for a second. He edged closer, mesmerized.  A smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. He wasn’t thinking about his condition. He wasn’t thinking about the diaper bag in the cart. He wasn’t thinking about being eighteen in a world full of toddlers. He was just—Watching. Absorbing. Small. Safe. And then— A hand tapped his shoulder. Gentle. But deliberate. Paul startled, turning fast. Martina stood there. Right behind him. Her face was controlled, but her eyes weren’t. There was worry there. And under it—just a hint of anger. Not the kind that punishes. The kind that comes from fear. “Paul,” she said quietly. His smile vanished. “I—I didn’t go far,” he said immediately, like he was already defending himself. “I just heard the clapping and—” “I know what you heard,” Martina said again, and her voice softened at the end, but only slightly. “But you do not leave me without saying anything.” Paul swallowed hard. His chest tightened. Because he hadn’t meant to. Because he hadn’t been trying to be difficult. Because something in him had just… drifted. Like a balloon slipping loose. Martina leaned closer—not invading, just anchoring. “You have to stick with me,” she said, voice low. “You understand?” Paul nodded quickly. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I get it.” Martina exhaled, her grip tightening on the cart handle like she was steadying herself too. “Good,” she said. “Because I am not losing you in here.” Paul’s throat tightened at that. Not because it was harsh. Because he could hear it: Don’t scare me. He followed her back. Step for step. His big side felt embarrassed. His little side felt chastened. And the market kept roaring around them like nothing had happened. They moved deeper into the building. Past fresh bread stands. Past coffee vendors. Past a table where someone was slicing samples of mango with a tiny knife, offering pieces on toothpicks like gifts. Paul’s senses were fraying again. The smell of roasted meat and citrus. The heat of bodies passing too close. He tried to stay present. He tried to stay big. But then—it hit him. A smell so warm and sweet it felt like it grabbed him by the face. Fresh doughnuts. The real kind—hot oil, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla. The smell made his stomach ache in a way that wasn’t hunger. It was longing. It was comfort. It was childhood. His little side surged so fast he barely had time to stop it. His feet moved. Just one step at first. Then two. He turned down an aisle without thinking, following the scent like it was a trail of breadcrumbs meant just for him. He didn’t even realize he’d separated until the noise behind him changed. Until Martina’s voice wasn’t beside him anymore. Until he was alone. And for a moment— It felt like a game. Like hide-and-seek. Like being little meant the world could be simple. He drifted closer to the doughnut stand, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. A woman behind the counter was pulling fresh rings out of oil, tossing them in sugar. Paul stared like it was magic. And then— “Paul?” Martina’s voice, calling. Not sharp. Not panicked. But searching. Paul’s little side answered before his big side could stop it. “Here!” Too bright. Too playful. Too young. Martina’s voice came again, louder now. “Paul!” He giggled—actually giggled, a small burst of sound that escaped him like he couldn’t help it. “Over here!” He lifted a hand like she could see it through the crowd. And then his big side slammed back into place like a door being kicked shut. The embarrassment hit so hard it made his stomach drop. He froze, explaining himself before she even arrived. His face burned. His pulse spiked. He could feel the market around him again—the adults, the strangers, the noise. And then Martina appeared through the crowd, cart nowhere in sight, her eyes scanning until they landed on him. Relief flashed across her face first. Then worry. Then that same mother-anger again. She stopped right in front of him. And for a second, she just looked at him. Like she was counting his breaths. Like she was making sure he was real. Then she exhaled hard through her nose. “Dios mío,” she muttered, mostly to herself. Paul’s mouth opened. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t trying to— I just smelled— and it was— I didn’t—” Martina lifted her hand. Not to hush him like a child. To stop him like a parent. “Paul,” she said, voice firm. “Enough.” His chest tightened. Martina’s gaze sharpened, but there was love in it too—heavy, inconvenient love. “If this is play,” she said, and her voice dipped into Spanish on the last word like it made it truer, “if this is going backwards… then you will have the same boundaries as a niñito.” Paul flinched. “A little boy,” she added, softer, but no less final. Paul’s throat tightened. “I’m not— I’m not doing it on purpose,” he tried again, voice strained. “I didn’t even realize I—” Martina’s eyes softened for half a second. Then hardened again—not cruel, just decisive. “I know,” she said. “But I am running behind, and this will be easier.” Paul swallowed hard. He hated how small he felt. He hated how exposed he felt. He hated the idea that anyone might be watching—That they might see him being corrected like a child. But when he looked around— Nobody cared.  Nobody was staring. People were buying fruit. Laughing. Eating samples. Living. The punishment existed only in his head. Martina’s voice cut through his spiraling. “You have two choices,” she said. “You hold my hand.” Paul’s face burned hotter. “Or,” Martina continued, nodding toward the cart she’d reappeared with—somehow already back in her control like she’d never lost it, “you keep one hand on the cart at all times.” Paul’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t want to hold her hand. Not here. Not in public. Not like that. So he chose the cart. The compromise that still let him feel a fraction older. “I’ll—” he swallowed. “I’ll stay with the cart.” Martina watched him for a beat. Then nodded once. “Good,” she said. “We continue.” Paul placed his hand on the cart handle. Fingers curling tight like it was a lifeline. Martina pushed forward. And Paul walked beside her again, step for step, his palm pressed to the cart like an anchor.  His hand stayed on the handle the way she’d told him. Fingers curled tight. Knuckles pale. Not because he was being punished—because it was the only thing that made his body believe he wasn’t going to disappear again. Martina glanced at him as they moved past a stall piled with mangoes and guavas, past crates of limes still dusted with field dirt, past a butcher counter where Spanish chorizo hung like red lanterns. “You’re doing better now,” she said, not asking. Stating. Paul’s jaw tightened behind his aviators. “Yeah.” One word. Four letters. A whole wall. Martina didn’t push. She didn’t pry. She understood the shape of his embarrassment—the way it made him shrink inward, the way it made honesty feel dangerous. So she tried something else. Conversation, but gentle. Not interrogation. “How is the play?” she asked, voice casual, like she was asking about weather. Paul swallowed. His shoulders rose and fell once. “It’s… fine.” Martina hummed. “Fine is not an answer. Fine is a hiding place.” Paul’s lips twitched like he almost smiled—almost. “It’s coming,” he admitted, quieter. “We’re… rehearsing.” Martina nodded like that was enough. Because it was. Because right now, she didn’t need him to perform courage for her. She needed him to keep breathing. They turned down another aisle, cart wheels thumping softly over old boards. Vendors called out prices. Someone laughed too loudly. A child shrieked with joy near a stand selling handmade toys. Music pulsed from somewhere deeper inside, a bass line that made the floor feel alive. Paul flinched—but he didn’t let go of the cart. That mattered. Martina pretended not to notice. She let him have his dignity. And when they looped back toward the place where the air had first turned sugary and warm, Martina’s mouth curved into something almost mischievous. The doughnut stall. The same one that had lured Paul away like a spell. The smell hit again—fresh dough, hot oil, sugar, cinnamon. Comfort baked into the air. Martina leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “You know,” she said, “after dinner… maybe we should all share a sweet treat.” Paul’s head turned before he could stop himself. The stall glowed under its little lights, trays of doughnuts lined up like treasures. Martina smiled wider. “The smell is too much to resist.” Paul’s mouth softened. A real smile this time—small, reluctant, but there. “Yeah,” he admitted. Martina’s eyes warmed. “Good.” And then, because she was Martina and she loved people through food, she started describing them like she was painting portraits. “For Amber,” she said first, without hesitation, “something bold. Something that punches you in the mouth and then makes you laugh about it.” Paul huffed a tiny laugh. Martina counted on her fingers. “A dark chocolate doughnut with chili and cinnamon sugar. Or maybe guava glaze with tajín and a little lime zest—something sweet, then sharp.” Paul’s smile widened despite himself. “For you,” Martina continued, glancing at him, “custard.” Paul’s cheeks warmed. “Not just any custard,” she said firmly. “A vanilla bean custard-filled doughnut. Soft dough. Warm. With powdered sugar, that makes a mess on your shirt. Especially after we take it out of the freezer, since you like your treats nice and frosty.” Paul’s throat tightened at the word frosty. His little side leaned toward it like it was a blanket. His big side pretended it didn’t. Martina didn’t tease him. She just kept going. “For me,” she declared, “traditional. Old-fashioned. Plain glaze. Maybe a little cinnamon. No nonsense.” Paul nodded like that made perfect sense. “And for Lilly…” Martina’s smile turned knowing. “Citrus. Always citrus.” Paul’s lips twitched again. Martina lifted her chin toward the stall like she could already see it. “A lemon-sugar doughnut. Or orange glaze. Something bright. Something that tastes like she’s trying to convince the world she’s fine.” Paul swallowed. That one landed. Martina steered the cart forward, already turning toward checkout— And that’s when Paul felt it. Not emotional. Physical. Those three mocktails. The two sparkling waters. The way his body had been holding tension all morning like a clenched fist after the clinic’s accident.  His bladder tightened, urgent and sharp, and his tracker in his mind flickered—green… yellow… yellow… Paul’s stomach dropped. Not panic yet. Not meltdown yet. Just that first cold realization that his body was starting the countdown without asking him. He drew in a careful breath through his nose. Okay. Bathroom. Now. Just get to a toilet. His big side snapped into action, fast and practical, the way it always did when he needed to survive something. Find the sign. Ask. Don’t wait. Don’t be polite. You can do this. His little side—quiet, tender, half-asleep inside him—stirred like a child hearing thunder. I have to go… I have to go… Paul tightened his grip on the cart handle until the plastic pressed into his palm. He leaned closer to Martina, preparing to speak. He could say it. He could just say it. He opened his mouth—“¡Martina!” That wasn’t his voice, no this one cut through the market like a bell. Martina froze mid-step. Her whole face changed—brightening, opening, lighting up with the kind of joy that belonged to history. She pulled the cart to the side immediately, instinctive, practiced. “Oh!” she breathed, delighted. “Dios mío—” Paul’s heart dropped so hard he felt it in his throat. No. Not now. Not right now. His bladder clenched again, sharper this time, and his tracker ticked higher. Yellow… edging toward orange. Martina stepped forward and hugged the woman like family—tight, warm, immediate. The older woman moved like someone who had raised children, survived storms, and still found time to look beautiful doing it. Silver hair pulled back neatly. Gold hoops. Crisp blouse. Perfume drifting ahead of her like a memory. Claudia. The two women began speaking Spanish the way old friends did—fast, overlapping, laughing in bursts like the years between them didn’t exist. Paul stood there holding the cart. Lost in the language. Trapped in his own body. The countdown accelerated. It wasn’t a gentle urge anymore. It was pressure. A tightening band around his lower stomach. A dull ache that started to bloom into something desperate. He shifted his weight. One foot to the other. A small bounce he didn’t even realize he was doing. His face burned. His big side screamed, Stop. Stand still. Don’t look like a kid. His little side cried, I gotta go potty. I gotta go. I gotta go potty. He tried to interrupt—he tried to choose maturity over pride. He leaned toward Martina, lips parting—But Claudia’s gaze dropped to him. Not to his face. To his outfit. To his size next to Martina. To the way he was holding the cart like it was a safety bar. And in her eyes, he wasn’t eighteen. He was younger. Her voice softened immediately, the tone turning sing-song and scolding at once. “Shhh, mi amor,” Claudia said in Spanish, waving her hand lightly. Hush, little one. It’s rude to interrupt. Paul froze. His throat tightened. His big side recoiled like he’d been slapped. Little one. The words landed like a weight on his chest. He didn’t understand every word, but he understood enough. Humiliation surged hot behind his eyes. Martina turned sharply, correcting her friend without hesitation. “Claudia,” she said, still smiling but firm, “no. This is Paul.” Claudia blinked, surprised. Martina’s hand rested briefly on Paul’s shoulder—anchoring him. “He’s a family friend,” Martina continued, her Spanish warm but deliberate. “And he’s helping me shop today.” Paul swallowed hard. Claudia’s face softened again—this time with something like apology. She smiled at him kindly. Paul forced his voice out. “Bathroom,” he managed, barely above a whisper. It wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t brave. It was a crack in the wall. Martina nodded quickly, eyes flicking to him like she’d heard the urgency underneath. “Yes, cariño,” she said. “Just a second.” Just a second. Paul’s stomach dropped. His body didn’t have a second. The pressure built again, like his bladder was a fist trying to force its way out of him. He shifted harder now. Knees bending. Feet tapping. A frantic rhythm he couldn’t control. His big side hissed, Stop. Stop. Stop. His little side whimpered, Please… please… He tried to hold still, but holding still made it worse. Holding still made the urge spike like a wave cresting too high. His tracker screamed orange. His hands started to shake on the cart handle. Claudia said something to Martina in Spanish—soft, familiar. Martina answered quickly, also in Spanish, clearly trying to keep it quiet. Paul caught fragments he didn’t understand, but he caught the tone. Babysitting. Medical issues. Extra protected. Paul’s face burned hotter. Claudia nodded sympathetically. Then she chuckled softly and said something else—this time with a smile that was too knowing. Martina sighed like she couldn’t believe it. Paul didn’t need to understand Spanish to know what was happening. They thought he was a child. They thought he was—His bladder clenched again. And suddenly, the dancing stopped. Not because he didn’t need to go. Because it was too late. His whole body went rigid. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened behind his sunglasses. For half a second, his big side tried to bargain with reality. No. Not here. Not now. Just hold. Just hold. Just— His little side didn’t bargain. His little side broke. And then he felt it. Warmth spreading fast. Not a trickle. Not a leak. A full, heavy release soaking into him like his body had finally given up the fight. His stomach dropped. His throat closed. His mind went white with shame. He stood perfectly still, like stillness could reverse time. Like stillness could make it not true. But it was true. He could feel the wetness. He could feel the weight. He could feel the way his shortalls would show it. He could feel the entire market even if no one was looking. The worst part wasn’t the accident. The worst part was the disappointment. Not from them. From himself. Because he’d almost done it right. He’d caught it. He’d been responsible. He’d been— And then circumstance had crushed him like it always did. Claudia’s expression changed instantly. Pity. Sadness. A softness that made Paul feel even smaller. She said something to Martina—gentle, sympathetic. Martina’s hand tightened on the cart handle. Paul couldn’t move.His tracker spiked so high it felt like his chest was on fire. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to rip the aviators off and throw them. He wanted to scream. He wanted— his mommy? Claudia’s voice turned soothing, like she was speaking to a boy half Paul’s age. “It’s okay, corazón,” she murmured. “Accidents happen.” Paul’s eyes stung. His big side snapped, furious and broken. I’m not a kid. I’m not. I’m not. I’m— His little side curled inward, whispering the truth his body couldn’t hide. I tried… I tried… Martina’s face sharpened with decision. She didn’t argue. She didn’t hesitate. She stepped close to Paul, voice low, firm, grounding. “Paul,” she said softly. “Look at me.” Paul’s breath trembled. He couldn’t lift his head. Martina reached into the diaper bag right there in public. No shame. No performance. Just triage. She pulled out the pacifier. Paul’s eyes widened in horror. His big side recoiled violently—But his little side surged forward, desperate, drowning, clinging to anything that meant safe. Martina didn’t ask. She didn’t make him choose. She simply brought it close, her voice dropping into that same soothing cadence Lilly used when she needed him calm fast. “Just for a moment,” she murmured. “We are not melting down here. Not today.” Paul’s hands shook, he couldn’t grab it. So Martina, simply guided the sillicon blub it’s tip reaching Paul’s lips. And the second it touched his mouth, his shoulders dropped like his body had been waiting for permission to breathe. Martina didn’t look at him like he was pathetic. She looked at him like he was human. Like he was someone she cared about. “Come,” she said, already moving. “Family restroom. Now.” Paul followed. Not walking like an eighteen-year-old. Walking like someone being guided through an emergency. They slipped through a hallway marked Family Restroom—quiet, blessedly quiet. Martina shut the door behind them and locked it. The market noise vanished into a muffled hum. Paul stood there trembling, pacifier still in his mouth, eyes burning, body heavy with wet shame. Martina didn’t change him right away. She saw his tracker in her mind without even needing to look. Orange meant danger. Orange meant spiral. Orange meant he could lose himself. So she did the only thing that mattered first. She crossed to the nursing couch tucked against the wall—meant for mothers and babies and quiet moments. And she sat down. Then she opened her arms. Paul hesitated—humiliation fighting need, pride fighting safety. But Martina didn’t move. Didn’t rush. Just waited. A steady invitation. Paul’s breath shuddered. And then, with the smallest broken sound, he stepped forward. Martina scooped him into her lap as best she could—awkward because he was tall, because he was heavy, because he was eighteen—But she did it anyway. Like it didn’t matter. Like love didn’t measure weight. Paul’s body folded into her with a shaking exhale. Martina rocked him slowly. Back and forth. Back and forth. Her hand rubbed his back in circles, firm and grounding. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re okay. You’re safe.” Paul’s eyes squeezed shut. The pacifier bobbed with each breath. For a moment, he let himself be small. Not because he wanted to be a baby. Because his nervous system needed a place to land. And Martina held him there. Long enough for the panic to drain. Long enough for his tracker to slide back down—orange… yellow… yellow… Long enough for his big side to return without shame. Paul’s breathing slowed. His shoulders loosened. His grip on the moment softened. Martina’s voice stayed low, steady. Her hand pressed flat between his shoulder blades, like she was making a vow through touch. “I’m sorry,” Martina whispered. Paul stilled. His head lifted slightly, confused, eyes glossy. Martina didn’t let him speak. She said it again, clearer. “I’m sorry, Paul.” The words weren’t dramatic. They were devastating in their simplicity. Because Martina wasn’t apologizing to be polite. She was apologizing because she meant it. “I should have listened the first time,” she continued, voice tight. “I heard you. I did. I heard you say bathroom and I thought—one second, one second, one second—” Her breath hitched, frustration turning inward. “And I forgot,” she admitted, the guilt sharp in her throat, “that for you… one second can become too late.” Paul’s chest tightened. His big side wanted to protest. Wanted to say it wasn’t her fault.Wanted to carry the blame like he always did. His little side just clung. Because someone was taking the shame off his shoulders and holding it themselves. Martina’s jaw flexed like she was angry—not at him. At the universe. At circumstance. At the way bodies could betray people who were trying their best. “This won’t happen again,” Martina said, voice low and fierce. “Not with me.” Paul’s breath trembled. Martina pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were wet—not tears falling, but something close. “Next time you say bathroom,” she promised, “we go. I don’t care if the Pope calls my name. We go.” A small, broken sound escaped Paul’s throat. Not laughter. Not crying. Something in between. Something that sounded like relief trying to exist. Martina kissed the side of his head—quick, fierce, maternal. “No apologies,” she murmured against his hair. “Not from you.” Paul’s lips trembled. He removed the pacifier himself, placing it carefully in Martina’s hand like he was handing back control. Martina nodded like she understood exactly what that meant. “Okay,” she whispered. “Now we fix it.” Chapter One-Hundred: Part Four The digital clock over Martina’s microwave glowed 1:50 PM in hard red numbers—too bright for how soft the apartment felt. The kitchen looked like a storm had passed through and decided to stay for lunch. Four full reusable grocery bags sat on the counter, half-unpacked; one had tipped over so that oranges rolled lazily against a can of chickpeas, and a few tins clinked together every time the fridge motor kicked on. On the table, two large cardboard boxes held the rest of the haul—peppers, onions, brown lentils, chorizo still wrapped tight, a bundle of carrots like they’d been yanked from earth five minutes ago. But the sound that owned the apartment wasn’t the kitchen. It was the classic “DuckTales” theme song—distant, cheerful, almost absurdly bright—floating in from the living room like a child had claimed the space and rewritten the rules. Martina turned her head and—again—felt that small, involuntary ache in her chest. Because the living room was playtime now. Paul sat on his changing mat in the middle of her rug like it was a small island of safety, knees tucked and shoulders loose, wearing only the baby-blue onesie Lilly had changed him into eariler. His pacifier was clipped neatly to the fabric—functional, practical, almost comically tidy against the softness of him. On the glass coffee table, the superhero bag gaped open, its mouth full of order disguised as chaos. Martina caught glimpses: extra diapers stacked like a plan, toy cars were already strewn across the tabletop, a few wood blocks scattered on the rug, and down at the very bottom—half-hidden—Batman action figures that hadn’t been brought out yet, like future comfort waiting in reserve. Right now, Paul was deep in a coloring book, choosing crayons with solemn concentration—red, then blue, then green—his small movements unhurried, his body heavy with that particular kind of relief that only happens when someone stops fighting. Every so often he let the pacifier drop, just for a moment, to take a few cool sips of the lemonade Martina had poured him in his sippy cup—then it returned to his mouth as if on instinct, his cheeks rounding slightly as he settled again. Martina couldn’t help it. She fawned. Not in a teasing way. Not the way people did when they wanted to make something cute out of something complicated. In the way a caregiver’s heart does when a fragile thing finally lands somewhere soft. “Qué artista,” she murmured under her breath, watching him fill in a shape like the world depended on staying inside the lines. Paul didn’t look up. But his shoulders loosened like he’d heard the approval anyway. Then— The dryer in the hallway gave a loud, triumphant BEEP-BEEP-BEEP that sounded like a machine announcing victory. Paul flinched so hard his whole body tightened. A soft cry slipped out of him—small, startled—before his big side could stop it. Martina was moving instantly, voice gentle and sure, hands open. “Hey, hey—shh, Pauly. It’s okay. It’s only the dryer,” she soothed, stepping closer without crowding him. “It’s just telling me your clothes from earlier today are all nice and dry. Isn’t that nice?” Paul’s eyes blinked wide behind the pacifier. He made a breathy sound, then nodded fast—relief spilling through him like air returning to a room. “Mmhmm!” he chirped, the word muffled around the pacifier, and then with a burst of proud little logic: “YES. Big boy cloths. Me wear. Me big.” Martina laughed—couldn’t help it—one warm, surprised sound. And then, as always, the laugh caught on something tender. Because it had only taken twenty minutes. Twenty minutes from the market incident to this—Paul slipping into a little space like gravity had finally stopped fighting him. Not because he wanted to disappear. Because his nervous system had. Because his body had found the one gear that didn’t hurt. Martina’s smile stayed, but her heart broke cleanly underneath it. She turned down the DuckTales volume just a notch, and headed for the dryer. Lilly’s instructions replayed in her mind like a checklist she couldn’t afford to fail: Little space. Then bed by two. Martina was aiming for the next five minutes. She pulled the warm clothes free—Paul’s shirt and shorts from earlier, his shortalls—and carried them down the hall. She stepped into her bedroom and laid them across a chair the way you lay out a promise: smooth, ready, waiting. Then she pulled the covers down, fluffed the pillows, adjusted the throw blanket at the foot of the bed like she was setting a stage for sleep. Not because she was dramatic. Because for Paul, sleep was treatment. By the time she returned to the living room, Paul had somehow created more mess—as if his hands had been busy making room for joy. Blocks on the table. Crayons on the rug. A car on the arm of the couch like it had parked itself. Martina put her hands on her hips, performing sternness with the softness still in her eyes. “Ah,” she said. “So this is what we’re doing. You make my apartment look like a tornado had a birthday party.” Paul blinked up at her—pacifier bobbing—then lifted his coloring book like evidence. “Pretty,” he insisted. Martina’s sternness collapsed into affection. “It is pretty,” she admitted, leaning closer to see. “Very, very pretty.” Then she straightened, voice shifting into calm authority with a gentle edge. “Okay, cariño. Time for a nice nap.” Paul’s face did that split-second thing—little side wanting to cling to play, big side not wanting to be told anything at all—and then, without protest, he reached his hand out. Martina gathered both the superhero bag and the diaper bag in one arm, the straps looping over her wrist, and took Paul’s hand with the other. He toddled beside her, pacifier clipped, lemonade forgotten, DuckTales still humming faintly behind them like the apartment was blessing the moment. Martina guided him down the hall. The clock read 2:45 PM when the apartment came back into focus again. The living room was still a mess—evidence of crayons and blocks and tiny wheels—but the chaos felt different now. It wasn’t a problem. It was proof that someone had been here, alive, and held. In the kitchen, Martina had cleaned most of it up with the fast efficiency of someone who knew how to reset a room without making a show of it. A large Dutch oven sat on the stove, lid slightly askew, steam breathing out in slow, fragrant pulses. The stew was alive. Lentejas con chorizo simmered and sizzled—brown lentils thickening into velvet, Spanish chorizo releasing that smoky paprika warmth into the broth, onions and garlic melting into sweetness, peppers softening, potatoes and carrots holding their shape just enough to feel like comfort. The whole apartment smelled like something old-world and steady—like family, like Sunday, like safety you could eat with a spoon. Martina leaned against the island and took a sip of chilled white wine, the bottle half gone but not sloppy—just a small reward. She glanced down at the recipe again and frowned. Fresh cilantro. She was missing fresh cilantro. Her eyes lifted toward the ceiling as memory clicked into place. The rooftop garden. There might still be some up there. Martina set the glass down and moved quickly, but quietly, down the hall. She opened her bedroom door just enough to see. Paul was still asleep—deep and peaceful—his face soft, his lashes resting like he’d finally stopped bracing. The pacifier bobbed adorably with each slow breath, a tiny rhythm of safety. Martina’s chest eased. A quick trip and back. She could do it. She closed the door carefully and slipped out of the apartment. The door opened again soon after. Not quietly. Not carefully. Not with Martina’s measured rhythm. It swung in with the kind of energy that didn’t know how to whisper, and the apartment instantly filled with voices. Amber came in first—bright, charged, moving like the day belonged to her—followed by Cassie, Lila, and two more girls, Jenna and Marisol, the whole group buzzing like a spark had gotten loose. The fab five were not quiet. They were a storm of wedding prep—parties, dinners, colors, venues, flowers, seating charts—eighteen-year-old passion poured into every sentence like the future was something you could plan into perfection if you just talked fast enough. One of the girls—Jenna—stopped short and inhaled dramatically. “Oh my God,” she said, grinning. “Amber, your mom is fucking awesome. It smells insane in here.” Amber laughed, proud. “Right? She’s literally a wizard.” “Mom?” Amber called, tossing her purse onto a chair. “Martina?” No answer. They moved deeper into the apartment—still chattering—until Marisol’s gaze snagged on the living room. “What’s all this?” she asked. The girls gathered, peering at the rug. Toy cars. Crayons. Coloring book. Blocks. The soft chaos of a child’s world abandoned mid-play. Amber stared for half a beat, then shrugged like she’d solved it instantly. “Oh. She probably babysat for someone in the building,” Amber said casually. “She must’ve returned the kid and forgot their stuff.” The girls cooed like it was the cutest mystery in the world. “Aww,” Cassie sighed. “Stop. That’s so cute.” “Baby fever,” Marisol admitted immediately, grinning. “I’m not even kidding.” Jenna clasped her hands. “What was the kid like? Little boy? Little girl? Omg—imagine the cheeks.” Lila rolled her eyes, laughing. “That is enough baby talk, girls, before Amber gets that far. First she’s gotta keep herself worthy of a white dress.” A loud chuckle rose up as if the apartment itself approved. Amber snorted. “Shut up.” In the darkness of Martina’s room, Paul’s eyes shot open. Not fully—nothing about him was fully awake right now—but wide enough to let panic in. The apartment wasn’t quiet anymore. It wasn’t just voices. It was movement. Footsteps. Laughter. The scrape of a chair leg. A burst of noise that felt too big for the walls. The kind of sound that meant people had entered your world without permission and started rearranging it. Paul pulled himself tight under the blanket like it could hide him from reality. His pacifier bobbed once, twice, and he clenched down, jaw aching—not for comfort, not even for little-space anymore— For silence. For invisibility. For don’t let them hear me breathe. Outside the door, Amber’s voice floated through first, bright and alive, a version of her that belonged to a future Paul used to assume he’d be standing in. “Okay, so the rehearsal dinner…” someone was saying. “Like, we need a vibe.” “It has to feel expensive,” Cassie chimed in, laughing. “Not tacky expensive. Like… elegant.” Paul’s stomach tightened. Elegant. Expensive. Future. Words that used to feel like a hallway he could walk down. Now they sounded like a door closing. Amber laughed again—soft, giddy—and it hit Paul in the chest like a bruise you forgot existed until someone pressed it. “Marcus literally said—” Amber started, and the girls squealed, and Paul’s throat went tight. He listened anyway. Not because he wanted to. Because his body didn’t know how to turn off fear. Amber was talking about the way Marcus looked at her. The way he held her hand. The way he whispered things that made her cheeks go pink. Paul lay there and tried to swallow the ache rising in his throat, but it stuck. Because it wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was grief. A sharp, humiliating grief for a version of himself that was supposed to be here too—supposed to be laughing with them, rolling his eyes, pretending he didn’t care while secretly caring way too much. Instead, he was in a bed that wasn’t his, wearing a diaper, with a onesie under a blanket like a secret he couldn’t survive being exposed. He heard the girls shift closer together, their voices getting that casual, razor-light tone teenagers use when they’re gossiping without realizing it’s cruelty. “Who’s bringing who to Winter Prom?” one of them asked. “Oh my God, Marisol, tell them,” Cassie said. “Tell them what you heard.” “Okay,” Marisol laughed. “Don’t quote me, but apparently, the student council did a headcount, and there are like… three guys still without tickets.” “Three?” Jenna gasped like it was scandalous. “Three,” Marisol repeated. “And one of them is literally Paul Goldhawk.” A beat. Paul’s entire body went cold. It wasn’t the name by itself. It was the way they said it. Like he was a fun fact. A statistic. A punchline. Cassie snickered. “Of course it’s Paul.” Lila’s voice chimed in—half amused, half dismissive. “Wait, Amber isn’t he like a… friend?” Paul’s lungs refused to pull in air properly. Friend. That word used to mean something solid. Now it sounded like a label people used when they didn’t know what to call you anymore. Amber’s voice lifted, defensive. “He is my friend.” “Okay, no, no,” Cassie said quickly, like she was being reasonable. “I’m not being mean. I’m just—like—he’s… kind of like the ICK. You know? Always in his own head. Plus he’s got that BABY DICK, if you believe some members of the basketball team.” Paul clenched his eyes shut as he heard the laughter, even Amber’s.  His tracker in his mind flickered—green cracked to yellow, then yellow sharpened toward orange. Because that was the thing about being talked about through a door. You couldn’t correct it. You couldn’t defend yourself. You just had to absorb it. Marisol laughed again. “And didn’t he like… disappeared for a while? Like, he’s always having some thing to do more important that the school. No really that little shit should have stayed away” Paul’s jaw tightened so hard it hurt. Lila sighed dramatically. “Honestly, I don’t get why he even tries. No offense, Amber, but like… he’s a loner. He’s kind of a loser. Like he could leave today and nobody would care tomorrow.” The word hit Paul like a slap. Loser. His stomach twisted so hard it felt like nausea. A tiny sound escaped him—barely a breath— And he froze instantly. Because he didn’t know if it had been loud. He didn’t know if the pacifier clip had clicked. He didn’t know if the mattress had creaked. His heart started pounding so hard he was sure it was audible. He pressed his hand over the pacifier like he could hold it still. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t be real. Outside, the girls kept going. “You know what’s wild?” Cassie said, voice lowering into that mean, giggly intimacy. “Even that weird spaz friend of his got a date.” Paul’s eyes burned. Tears slid silently down the sides of his face into his hair. His body felt too hot, too exposed, like shame had lit him from the inside. Amber’s voice rose again, firmer. “Stop. That’s not fair.” “Oh my God, we’re not saying he’s like… a monster,” Jenna laughed. “He’s just—” “Sad,” someone else finished, too casually. “Like, he’s sad.” Paul’s throat closed. Sad. Then—like the universe wanted to test him—footsteps moved toward the hall. Closer. Paul’s entire body locked. He heard someone—Cassie?—walk past the living room. He heard the soft creak of the hallway floor. He heard, unmistakably, the sound of a hand brushing a wall for balance. Paul squeezed the blanket up to his mouth and stopped breathing. Closer. Closer. A shadow slid under the crack of Martina’s bedroom door. Paul’s brain screamed: She’s coming in. She’s coming in. She’s going to open it. He tried to make himself smaller than small. Not just little-mode. Not just quiet. Nonexistent. The doorknob gave a tiny sound—barely a shift, like someone’s hand had rested on it without turning. Paul’s vision went spotty. His tracker, in his mind, spiked orange with red on the horizon. He could feel his bladder tense in alarm, his muscles going rigid, his body preparing to do the one thing it always did when terror hit. No. No. Please. Not now. He clamped down on the pacifier like it could hold his body together. A pause. Then Amber’s voice called from the living room—bright, pulling whoever it was back. “Cassie! Bring the wedding ideas box!” Footsteps retreated. The shadow slid away. The hallway light shifted again. And Paul finally dragged air into his lungs in a shaky, silent gulp that felt like swallowing broken glass. He didn’t sob. He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. He just lay there, shaking, tears leaking, his insides cramping with the effort of staying hidden. Because the worst part wasn’t the insults. The worst part was that he was right there—and to them, he was already gone. His tracker hovered orange. Red waited patiently. And Paul—caught between big-side humiliation and little-side fear—could only think one desperate, cracking truth: If they open this door… I don’t know if I survive it. Out in the living room, Amber and the girls sprawled across the couch, voices overlapping, bright with excitement. They talked about the wedding like it was a movie they were all starring in. “Okay, but tell us,” Marisol demanded, “what did Marcus say last night? Like—details.” Amber laughed, cheeks flushing, and her voice softened into love. “He just—he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room,” Amber said, smiling so wide it made her almost glow. “And he’s… he’s so steady. He makes me feel safe. He’s the man I was meant to be with, I’m just so lucky he transfered schools when he did. Otherwise, I might have missed him” Paul lay perfectly still while his heart wasn't just shattered, that already happened those shattered were just used to stab the last spark of any happiness or feeling he would have for Amber. Amber kept talking, dreamy now. “He’s not even trying to impress anyone, he just… is,” she said, and the girls squealed. Paul stared at the ceiling. His chest tightened. His stomach twisted. He could feel it physically—pain manifesting, like shame had weight and was pressing down on his ribs. Then someone—Cassie, maybe—asked it like it was a joke. “Okay, but like… Amber, you HAVE to choose, so is it Paul or Marcus? Who stays or goes?” Silence. Amber didn’t answer. But the silence did. Paul’s whole body went cold. He lay there, tears slipping silently down his temples into his hair, his mouth still around the pacifier like it was the only thing keeping him from making a sound. Orange. Red on the horizon. He could feel it coming—meltdown, panic, collapse—his body priming for the only escape it knew. The wedding talk continued, merciless in its normalcy. Then Amber said, bright again: “Oh—my mom got her old wedding dress out. I’m thinking I might wear it for the engagement party or the rehearsal dinner.” The girls erupted. “Yes!” “Go get it!” “We have to see it!” Amber stood, excited, and started down the hall. Paul curled tighter, as tight as he could—praying, praying he could survive this. His tracker flickered at the edge of red. His hands shook against the blanket. Amber reached Martina’s door. She opened it halfway—”AMBER.” And then she froze. Because Martina’s voice rang out from somewhere behind her, sharp with sudden urgency. “Amber.” Amber turned instinctively toward the sound— And then a loud crash exploded from Martina’s room. A sharp, ugly sound that turned the apartment’s air into panic. Martina’s voice snapped again, louder now, alarmed. “Amber—away from the door. Get away from the door!” Amber stumbled back, startled. “What—?” “I put up new shelving,” Martina said quickly, voice tight. “Glass. It could be dangerous.” Amber backed away into the living room, confused, the girls all talking at once— And inside Martina’s room, the truth of the crash unfolded. Paul had tried to get out. Not planned. Not rational. Just instinct—flight. He’d climbed toward the edge of the bed looking for a way out of the noise, out of the shame, out of being trapped hearing people decide his worth like it was a game. But Martina’s bed was high. And Paul—still disoriented, still little, still shaking—misjudged the distance. He fell. Hard. The back of his head smacked the floor with a sickening thud. Pain detonated through him, white-hot, blinding. He bit down on the pacifier to keep from screaming. He didn’t want them to hear him. He couldn’t let them hear him. His body shook violently, pain and humiliation mixing into something unbearable. The door opened. Martina stepped in, breathless—And saw him. Paul on the floor. Tracker glowing inferno red. His entire body was trembling. Martina’s heart dropped, but she didn’t have time to collapse. She had to get the girls out. Now. She turned, forced calm into her voice, and stepped into the living room like she could hold the chaos with her hands. “Ladies,” she said, too bright, too quick. “Rain check. Please. It is… a bigger mess than I expected. I cannot entertain.” Confusion rose immediately. “Aww, seriously?” Jenna pouted. Martina’s eyes found Amber and held. “Amber, I’m going to need help as soon as your friends leave,” she said tightly. “My wedding dress will have to wait.” Amber’s face flushed with annoyance.She started ushering her friends out—disappointed, confused, grumbling—The door finally shut. The apartment fell into a thick, aching quiet. Martina darted back into her room. Paul was still shaking. Not bleeding. But shaking like his body didn’t know how to stop. Martina scooped him up immediately as she sat on the floor next to him, cradling his head with desperate care, fingers finding the bump at the back. It was there—swollen, tender—but otherwise he seemed intact. She tried to reach him. “Paul—cariño—look at me. Look at me.” He wouldn’t answer. He couldn’t. His jaw was locked around the pacifier, teeth clenched as if it were the only thing keeping him from breaking into pieces. Martina tried to pull it free gently. He wouldn’t let go. She coaxed, voice low and pleading. “Pauly… I need you to breathe. I need you to let go, just a little.” Paul’s eyes squeezed shut. His whole body trembled harder. And then—when the pacifier finally slipped free— The scream came. Raw. Unnamed. Pain and shame fused into one sound. In the hallway, Amber froze mid-step. Her annoyance evaporated instantly. Because she recognized the voice before her brain could even catch up. Paul? Amber pushed the door open—And saw him. Her former best friend since birth. The boy who had everything, then lost his mother, moved away, came back— And what Amber saw was not a man. Not even a teen. Not even a boy. It was a baby. A baby cradled in her mother’s arms, screaming and shaking uncontrollably. Amber stood stunned, the world tilting violently. This wasn’t just diapers. This was Paul being pulled backward like something had reached into him and yanked. And then it clicked—sharp, brutal. He’d been here the whole time. He’d heard everything. Amber gasped, slapped a hand over her mouth, tears rising fast—guilt, shame, pain twisting together until she couldn’t tell which one burned most. Martina looked up, voice rising to cut through Amber’s shock. “Amber!” she snapped, not cruel—urgent. “I need help.” Amber blinked, frozen. Martina motioned sharply toward the dresser. “The green bag,” Martina said. “Side pocket.” Amber moved on instinct, stumbling to the dresser, fingers shaking as she unzipped the bag. And her hand closed around something that made her stomach flip. A baby bottle. Adult-sized. Amber stared at it, confused, horrified, heartbroken. Martina didn’t let her spiral. “Milk,” Martina ordered. “Warm it. Fast. No questions until after.” Amber ran. The screams continued behind her, filling the apartment like a siren. Paul wasn’t communicating in anything but pain. Amber worked with trembling hands, moving too fast, almost dropping the bottle, her mind screaming its own thoughts: He heard me. He heard us. Oh my God—Paul— When she rushed back and handed the bottle over, she watched in stunned silence. Martina shifted Paul in her arms, rocking him with fierce tenderness, cooing softly, baby talk steady and sure—not degrading, not mocking—just the only language his nervous system could accept right now. “Shh… shh… aquí… aquí… it’s okay… it’s okay, Pauly…” And within moments—impossibly—Paul opened. The bottle met his mouth. His body began to calm in stages, like a storm easing rather than vanishing. The shaking slowed. The screams faded into sobs, then into broken breaths. And the watch that had glowed inferno red— began sliding down. Red… orange… orange… Amber stood there, tears on her face, watching her mother soothe him like she’d been doing it her whole life. Twisted relief and devastation tangled in her chest. Amber finally understood, with brutal clarity, what this condition was doing. It was taking his world—his future—his dignity—and forcing his body to crawl backward just to survive. Amber’s hand flew to her mouth again. Her voice barely worked. “Mom…” she whispered. Martina didn’t look up. She kept rocking. Kept soothing. Kept holding Paul together. “After,” Martina said, voice shaking with controlled fury. “After we talk. After he’s safe.” And Amber—standing in the wreckage of her own words—could only watch as Paul’s breathing finally began to steady.  

“Baby mommy not big girl!” She said kicking her feet before her diaper changed.   She laid there drinking her bottle as she had her legs lifted she watched as her diaper was taped on.   “Ok.” She said as she was hungry   

Please can you continued this fanfic. Maybe caleb could be take care oof Bradley at the school