14. Nikolaus #4
I strip him with a minimum of talk—just the faintest checks to make sure he’s not too cold, not ticklish, not in pain. The training pants are a little damp and clinging, which he tries to apologize for, but I shut that down with a finger to his lips.
“Baby,” I say, “it’s what they’re for.”
He blinks up at me, that enormous trust-dazed look again, and for a second I wonder how anyone could mistake him for a burden.
The changing table is already ready for him, so I lift him in both arms and set him there as if he’s weightless.
He barely moves as I clean him, powder him, and fasten the diaper in place, only offering a soft sound when the fresh padding hugs him tight.
His arms curl up on instinct, hands balled near his chin, his breathing shallow and even as a sleeping infant’s.
I thread his feet into the pajamas—a babyish navy-blue number with clouds on the toes and a zip that runs from ankle to collar.
I nudge his hands through the sleeves and zip him in, careful not to catch the skin of his throat.
He stares up at the ceiling, limp and pliant, waiting for whatever I’ll do next.
“Arms up,” I say softly.
He obeys, and I lift him again, holding him tight against my chest for a few seconds before lowering us both onto the daybed in a slow, careful fall.
The mattress is wide enough for both of us, and I arrange the blankets so he’s enveloped on all sides.
His head fits perfectly in the crook of my arm, jaw slackening as he lets himself melt into the sensation of being held.
I consider, for a moment, letting him drift like this, but I know he’ll sleep better if he’s eaten first. I tuck the blanket around his legs and stand, telling him I’ll be back in a minute, and that he’s not to move a muscle.
There’s no protest—no attempt at independence—just a faint, trusting hum that’s as close to “okay” as he can get.
I leave the nursery and pad down to the kitchen, grab one of the glass bottles I had the ladies prepare that morning, and open the fridge to retrieve the milk.
I pour, cap, and heat it in the bottle warmer, shaking it gently to check the temperature.
It’s still a little strange, the lengths to which I go for this boy, but I can’t help the satisfaction that comes from these small acts.
I have a staff for a reason, but this, this is for me. For him.
When I return, Charlie hasn’t moved. He’s curled on his side, knees drawn up a little, one hand tucked under his cheek.
I can see the way his eyelids flutter with exhaustion, the way his lips part and close, tasting the phantom of a pacifier.
I know if I offered it, he’d take it. But I want to see him drink first, to fill that small, hollow space inside him that aches for nurture.
I sit on the edge of the bed, slide my arm under his shoulders, and ease him into my lap. He goes boneless, head lolling against my bicep as I cradle him. I offer the bottle, and he looks up at me for a long second, questioning, then, with a soft little swallow, accepting.
This first feels like something big.
I’m not sure how to explain it, but when he latches onto the bottle’s nipple and begins to drink in slow pulls, it feels like he’s accepting me.
He drinks like he’s never had milk before.
Small, greedy swallows, eyes half-lidded, one hand gripping my wrist with a faint tremor.
I keep the bottle steady and stroke his hair with the other hand.
At first, I wonder if he’ll get embarrassed, but he just keeps drinking, drifting further with every swallow.
By the time he’s finished, his entire body has gone heavy against me, and his breathing is so slow I have to watch the shallow rise of his chest to assure myself he’s awake at all.
I wipe away a film of milk from his lip with my thumb. He watches me do it, almost cross-eyed with exhaustion, and I get the sense that if it weren’t for gravity, he’d float away.
I lay him down gently and retrieve the pacifier from the bedside drawer. He parts his lips automatically, and I slip it in. It’s a little embarrassing, how much pride I feel at this—the perfect trust, the way he takes everything I give him.
“Story?” I ask, my voice as low and sweet as I can make it.
He nods, no words left in him.
I sit up against the headboard and pull him into the space between my legs, his back to my chest. I reach for the stack of picture books on the shelf—bought over the years with the intention to one day be able to read to my forever boy.
I remember Charlie’s request from last night and select a Greek fairy tale, the title transliterated in clumsy English: To magiko dendro kai o mikros vasilias.
The magical tree and the little king. The first page is all sumptuously naive watercolors and oversized text.
I open it and hold it up, so Charlie can see, his head lolling against my collarbone, and I begin to read, translating as I go.
“Once upon a time, in a land very far away, there was a little king who wore a crown of olive leaves. No one knew he was a king except the magical tree that grew near his window.”
Charlie’s body is so loose against me now, it’s like I’m holding a cloud. His thumb hooks in the edge of the blanket as if anchoring himself to the daybed, but otherwise he is still—listening, I think, or at least letting the words lap over him.
I make sure to read slowly, drawing out the vowels in the Greek so he can hear the difference, the way the language curves around itself.
Whenever a word repeats, I say it in Greek, then in English, and sometimes in both together—“dendro, tree—dendro, see? Like dendrite, baby, your brain is full of trees.” Charlie hums, a faint laugh that gets muffled by the pacifier.
The book is not long, but I take my time. Halfway through, I realize he is mouthing some of the sounds after me, barely audible, like he is trying on the shape of my mother tongue without alerting me to the fact.
I pause and say, “You’re learning quick,” and this time, my throat thickens with pride and a kind of private, choking awe.
He keeps repeating the new word, lips squishing around the rubber of the pacifier, until it becomes a rhythm, a lullaby for himself. I slow the story until the words barely stretch above a murmur, letting him slip further, until the book droops and my own eyes start to sting.
When I finally reach the end, the little king climbing into the tree’s branches and vanishing into a world of leaves, I close the book and set it aside.
Charlie is nearly under, but when I nuzzle into his hair and whisper, “Rest well, baby,” there’s the barest movement—a soft arch of his back, as if he’d roll himself into my chest, into the warm circle of my arms, if only he remembered how to move.
I keep him pressed close, both because I want to and because I know, after all he’s endured today, he needs the weight of someone to hold him together. I stroke his hair, counting the seconds between his breaths, and listen as rain starts to fall outside.
Some time later, I wake to the feel of Charlie’s hand searching for mine under the blanket. I take it, give it a squeeze, and he startles, then melts.
There is a moment, hovering between sleep and waking, when all my wolfish instincts dissolve into something gentler, more bone-deep.
I realize I’ve built a life for this boy without even knowing him—picked out the clothes, the toys, the bedtime rituals, the stories—and that it wasn’t madness at all, but a kind of instinctual preparation.
Like I have always known I would find a pup in need, a boy in need, and I’d made the den as soft and generous as I could.
And while I anticipated it to happen at some point, I realize that I love this boy.
When Charlie’s eyelids flutter open, the first thing he does is twist in toward me. His hair is a mess, and his cheeks are stamped with pillow indentations, but the lines of pain around his mouth have faded, and his eyes are clearer than I’ve seen them since I’ve known him.
He tries to speak, but the pacifier garbles it. I pull it out gently, thumb brushing his lower lip, and say, “What is it?”
“Thank you,” he whispers, voice raw. “It’s… really, really nice here.”
Maybe it shouldn’t matter so much—maybe I should be above needing approval from a boy I stole and coddled and want to keep forever—but fuck, I’d burn the whole world down just to hear it again.
I press a kiss to the crown of his head and say, “You’re welcome, baby. Want to nap more, or do you want to sit with me awhile?”
He considers, then murmurs, “Sit. With you.”
I help him upright, supporting him until he’s steady, then let him lean against my chest. The footie pajamas are so soft his hands can’t stop fidgeting with the sleeves, and when I look down, I see he’s tracing the clouds like they’re a secret only he knows about.