Chapter 6 #3
But sitting there—warm, fed, unhurried—something inside me kept nudging forward, like it had been waiting for this exact stillness.
“I’m not very good at… needing things,” I said finally. The words slipped out before I could polish them. “I learned early that it was better to handle stuff on my own.”
Graeme nodded, not interrupting.
“So when you noticed,” I continued, eyes still on the bowl, “and when you said I could take a break… that wasn’t nothing to me.”
He didn’t brush it off. Didn’t minimize it.
“Good,” he said. “It shouldn’t be nothing.”
Something warm loosened behind my ribs. I took another sip, buying myself a second.
I stirred the soup just to have something to look at. “I, um… thank you.”
The spoon clinked softly against the bowl.
“Rudy,” he murmured.
Something about the way he said my name made the room feel smaller. Not a trap—closer.
“Yeah?”
“You came back to the store for a reason.” His voice was warm, with no assumptions tucked inside it. “When you’re ready, you can tell me why.”
A breath left me before I realized I’d been holding it.
“There’s… a part of me,” I said slowly. “Um…”
Graeme didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fill the silence with encouragement.
So I tried again.
“There’s a part of me that’s always been there. Since I was a kid. And I’ve spent most of my life trying to hide it.”
The words felt strange in my mouth—like they weren’t supposed to exist anywhere but inside my head.
Graeme’s posture didn’t change. His face didn’t flicker. He only waited, the way someone waits for a delicate ornament to settle on a branch.
I took a breath and let the truth come.
“I’m… a little,” I said softly. “Not because I’m overwhelmed or scared. It’s not a reaction. It’s just… me. The real me. And I’ve tried so hard to make it disappear.”
My voice shook. The spoon rattled against the bowl.
Graeme leaned forward slightly—not closing the space, just letting me know he was listening.
“My parents were teenagers when they had me,” I said. “They were addicts long before I understood what that meant. I don’t remember much affection. Mostly I remember noise. Arguments. Being cold because no one noticed I needed a jacket.”
My fingers curled around the spoon.
“They overdosed when I was small,” I added. “It was years apart. By the time I was old enough to understand what had happened, I was already used to people disappearing.”
Graeme’s face stayed open.
“I spent most of my childhood in foster care,” I said. “Different houses. Different rules. Different versions of what I was allowed to be. Some were fine. Some weren’t. Most of them made it very clear I wasn’t meant to stay.”
I swallowed.
“Then I landed Mrs. Davis.”
The name felt solid in my mouth.
“She was my foster mother,” I said. “But she was… more than that. She chose me. Every day. She loved me without conditions. Not for being quiet or behaving. Just for being hers.”
My chest tightened as the memories pressed closer.
“She used to tell me that I never really got a chance to be a kid,” I went on.
“That I grew up too fast. That I didn’t get soft things when I was small, so I deserved them now.
All of them. No guilt or shame.” I let out a shaky breath.
“She said there was nothing wrong with needing comfort. That it didn’t mean I was broken. ”
Graeme shifted slightly in his chair, one forearm resting on the table now, not crowding me, just closer—close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. His gaze stayed on my face, steady and patient, like he wasn’t going anywhere no matter how long this took.
“She gave me structure without making it feel like punishment. Bedtimes. Warm milk. Coloring books. Stuffed animals. Space to be small without calling it a problem.” I shook my head slightly. “She never used the word little. She didn’t need to. She just let me be.”
A stupid tear slid down my cheek and I swiped it away with the back of my hand.
“That was the first time in my life I felt safe,” I said. “Not tolerated. Safe.”
Graeme’s eyes softened. Deep, warm, full of understanding.
I hesitated, then forced myself to say it plainly. “The rest of it—the stuff I figured out later—that was me. Not her.”
I took a deep breath and then expelled it slowly.
“Pacifiers,” I said, the word feeling surreal out loud. “And sometimes bottles.”
My face burned anyway. Habit. Old wiring.
“I read something once about grounding—about how your body remembers being soothed, even if your life didn’t come with much soothing.” I gave a rough little laugh. “Turns out my brain quiets down when my mouth has something to do.”
I rushed the next part before I could chicken out. “I found it as an adult. In private. I bought them myself. I didn’t tell her. She never knew about that part.”
Nothing in his expression changed.
“But,” I added, softer, “she’s the reason I knew what comfort was like.”
The words settled between us. Not heavy. Just true.
“When she died,” I continued, voice rough, “I convinced myself that part of me had to go with her. That side of me only existed because she let it. I threw most of my things away. I kept one thing—a reindeer plushie. It’s in my bag at the inn. I couldn’t let that go.”
His jaw tightened—just a flicker—before easing again. One hand slid flat against the table, palm down, like he was grounding himself while I spoke.
“My ex had rules,” I said quietly. “He never called them that. But there were parts of me he didn’t want to see. Things he said were embarrassing. Inappropriate. Not who he needed to be with.”
My fingers curled against the bowl.
“So I hid that part of myself. I told myself that even if I wanted to leave, who else would put up with someone like me? Someone needy. Someone complicated. Someone… little.”
The word settled between us.
Graeme exhaled slowly through his nose. Not impatience. Not anger. Something controlled and protective, carefully leashed. His eyes stayed on mine, dark and intent, like he was taking every word seriously.
“I got very good at pretending,” I said. “At being just enough.”
“Rudy,” he said quietly.
Just my name. Nothing else. But the way he said it made my shoulders ease.
“God, Graeme.” I whispered. “I didn’t come here to tell you all of that.” My voice shook. “But sitting here with you… it feels like I can speak my truth without being told to fix myself.”
Another tear slipped free. I didn’t wipe it away.
Graeme moved then—slow, deliberate. He reached across the table but stopped halfway, his hand hovering just long enough to make it clear the choice was mine.
I didn’t pull back.
His thumb brushed the tear from my cheek, warm and steady, the touch careful without being tentative.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, and the word settled deep in my chest, “thank you for trusting me with that.”
Graeme leaned back slightly, just enough to give me room again, but his presence stayed solid across the table. When he spoke, it wasn’t rushed.
“There are a few things I want you to hear,” he said. “And I want you to take them at your own pace. You don’t owe me a reaction.”
I nodded, a small movement. My hands were still wrapped around the bowl, fingers warm from the ceramic.
“First,” he said, “being a little isn’t a flaw.
It isn’t something broken that needs fixing.
It’s part of how you’re wired. The softness.
The need for comfort. The way you settle when someone makes space for you.
” His gaze held mine. “Those aren’t weaknesses.
They’re just parts of you. No worse than the parts that get you through workdays and grocery lines and adult conversations. ”
I waited for the familiar caveat—the but—and when it didn’t come, something inside me shifted.
“Second,” he continued, “no one gets to be cruel to you about that. Not because of their career or because of their image or because they don’t understand it. If someone loves you, they don’t get to decide which parts of you are acceptable.”
I couldn’t remember the last time someone spoke about me without trying to correct me.
“And third,” he said, gentler again, “I’m glad you had Ms. Davis. I’m glad someone gave you that safety, even for a while. You deserved it then. You still deserve it now.”
Hearing it said that plainly undid me.
My eyes blurred again. It felt like confirmation that my need for gentleness hadn’t been a weakness—just a way of surviving.
Graeme shifted in his chair, resting his forearms on the table.
“I should also tell you,” he said, “that you’re not explaining something foreign to me.
I’m part of the queer community. I’ve known littles.
I’ve known boys who need structure, and boys who only need softness, and boys who need both depending on the day.
” A faint, wry smile touched his mouth. “You’re not shocking me, Rudy. ”
He wasn’t waiting for me to justify myself, and that changed everything.
“I don’t see you as childish,” he went on. “I see you as someone who learned early that the world wasn’t gentle, and figured out a way to survive it.”
I anchored myself to the weight of the bowl, the warmth against my palms reminding me I was still here.
“For as long as you’re here,” he said, “I can be a safe place if you want one. That doesn’t come with conditions. It doesn’t come with expectations. And it’s not a transaction.” His eyes softened. “I’m not offering this because I want something from you.”
I believed him—and that scared me more than doubt ever had, because belief had always been the thing that made loss possible.
“If what helps you feel grounded is structure,” he continued, choosing the word carefully, “we can talk about that. You get to decide when you want it, and when you don’t. I’ll follow your lead.”
My chest felt too full. I nodded once, then again, the movement small but certain.
“And if you don’t want that,” he added, “that’s just as okay. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to say no. You’re allowed to use your words.”
The last part dropped lower, his voice dipping in a way that made my shoulders ease without me meaning them to.
I managed a breathy sound that might have been a laugh. “I’m… not always good at that.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said mildly, not unkind. “But you’re learning.”
I stared down at the now cold soup, then back up at him. My heart was racing, not with fear but with something warmer and heavier.
“I don’t want to hide anymore,” I said quietly. “I don’t want to feel like that part of me is something I have to earn the right to have.”
“You don’t,” he said immediately. “It’s already yours.”
I nodded, throat tight, emotions stacking faster than I could sort them.
“Okay,” he said softly, grounding us again. “Then here’s the only thing I’ll ask.”
I looked at him, a familiar tension curling low in my stomach.
This was usually the part where the conditions appeared. The fine print. The moment when understanding turned into expectation.
Graeme seemed to notice the shift in me.
“Actually,” he said, correcting himself gently, “two things—and only if they help.”
That if landed harder than I expected. Not as pressure. As permission.
He waited a beat, as if making sure I was still with him, then continued, his voice steady in a way that didn’t ask anything from me.
“First,” he said, “when you need something—comfort, space, quiet, reassurance—try telling me. Even if you don’t have the right words yet. Even if it feels awkward. We can figure the words out together.”
No warning. No consequence. Just an invitation.
He paused, watching my face, giving me time instead of filling the space.
“Second,” he continued, “you don’t have to decide anything all at once. You can take things one moment at a time—adult when you want to be, softer when you need to be—and you don’t owe me consistency.”
Something warm and disorienting spread through me at the idea that I didn’t have to perform continuity. That I could just… be, and be different tomorrow if I needed to.
I’d never had anyone say it like that before. Calm. Certain. As if he actually meant it.
His gaze held mine, warm and sure.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
The way he said it—gentle, assured, like he already trusted that I could—sent a quiet shiver through me.
“Yes,” I whispered before I could overthink it.
His smile was slow, fond, and unmistakably proud.
“That’s all,” he said. “One step at a time.” He paused for a moment. “Rudy?” he asked softly.
“Mm?” My voice was barely there.
“Would it help,” he asked, “to stop being ‘on’ for a little while?”
The question landed carefully, like he’d set it down between us and stepped back to let me decide.
I was stunned by how easy it felt to be asked instead of told.
I thought of Nate’s expectations.
Of how tired I’d been by the end.
Of how long it had been since I’d been allowed to simply stop.
“I think,” I said slowly, choosing honesty over polish, “I’d like that.”
He stood and extended his hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Just a little while. The shop’s empty.”
His palm was warm and solid around mine, guiding rather than pulling as he led me a few steps farther into the back room, toward the small loveseat tucked against the wall beneath the window.
I lay down, curling in on myself. Graeme draped a blanket over my legs with quiet care, then reached for a small pillow from the shelf beside the loveseat. The warmth made my eyes heavy instantly.
He handed me the pillow, shaped like a gingerbread man. It was soft, ridiculous, unapologetic.
My breath caught as it sank in that he wasn’t guessing. He understood.
“Thank you,” I said, the words simple and true.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “Rest, little one.”
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I did.