Chapter 7
Lena
I traced the rim of my coffee mug with one finger, watching the steam curl up between us.
Tyson sat across my tiny kitchen table looking unfairly good for someone who'd spent the night on my lumpy couch.
His hair stuck up at odd angles, and his jaw held that perfect amount of stubble that made my fingers itch to touch.
But it was the hickey on his neck—the one I'd definitely put there—that made my stomach flip.
Memories crashed over me in waves. The way he'd carried me to my bedroom like I weighed nothing.
His hands mapping every curve while his mouth did wicked things to my neck.
The heat in his eyes when he'd pressed me into the mattress, all that controlled strength focused entirely on me.
I'd been so ready, trembling with want, when he'd pulled back.
"If we do this, we do it right."
Those words had hit different in the moment. Frustrating as hell when all I wanted was his weight on me, his hands everywhere, that careful control finally snapping. But lying there watching him force himself to step back, to put my needs above what we both desperately wanted—that was new.
Cruz would never have stopped. He would have taken what he wanted with some degrading comment about little girls needing to learn their place. Tyson stopping, even though it was annoying as hell, was also just abotu the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me.
He wanted to do this right. Wanted to be sure. Wanted me to be sure.
Now here we sat, morning light streaming through my kitchen window, about to negotiate terms like this was a business arrangement instead of the most intimate thing I'd ever done.
I tugged at the hem of my purple unicorn pajama top, hyperaware of how ridiculous I must look.
Messy bedhead, no makeup, wearing pajamas that would fit right in at a middle school slumber party.
Tyson, of course, had somehow managed to look put-together despite sleeping in yesterday's clothes.
His tactical vest hung on my coat rack like it belonged there.
He'd rolled his sleeves up, revealing forearms that made me think very non-little thoughts.
The legal pad in front of him was already headed with neat block letters: "TERMS OF DYNAMIC - L & T - CONFIDENTIAL. "
"First thing," he started, uncapping his pen with military precision. "Safe words. Non-negotiable."
The businesslike tone should have been a mood killer. Instead, it made something settle in my chest. This mattered to him. I mattered to him. Enough to do it right.
"Sparkles," I said immediately.
His eyebrow quirked up, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile.
"When I say 'Sparkles,' everything stops."
"Sparkles," he repeated with complete seriousness, writing it down in neat capitals. No mockery, no judgment. Just acceptance. "I like it. It's yours, yours alone to use."
The possessive edge to those words made me shiver.
"But also," he continued, pen tapping against the pad, "I need a nonverbal signal. For when you're . . ." He paused, choosing words carefully. "When you're deep in little space. Or when you’re a little tied up? Sometimes words can be difficult then."
My throat tightened. I bit my lip. Even thinking about either of those options left me breathless.
"Tapping out?" I suggested, demonstrating against the table. "Three taps anywhere on your body means full stop?"
"Perfect. Three taps, full stop, no questions asked."
I watched him write, the careful precision of each letter. His hands were steady now, so different from how they'd shaken last night in the shop. These hands had been to war, had done things he'd never talk about. But here, now, they moved with gentle purpose, creating safety with ink and paper.
"Cruz never..." The words stuck in my throat like glass. I tried again. "There was never a way to stop. Even when I was crying, when I couldn't breathe, when I—"
"Hey." His hand covered mine, warm and solid. "Look at me."
I did, finding his brown eyes fierce with conviction.
"There will always be a way to stop with me," he said, each word deliberate. "Always, Lena. The second you say 'Sparkles' or you tap out, everything stops. No questions, no anger, no punishment. Just aftercare and discussion about what went wrong."
"Promise?" I hated how small my voice sounded.
His hand tightened on mine. "I swear it on my brothers' graves."
The weight of that oath settled between us like a physical thing.
Tears pricked at my eyes. "That's... that's a big promise."
"It's the only kind worth making." He turned my hand over, thumb tracing my palm. "You need to know you're safe with me. That your consent matters. That 'no' means something."
"It didn't before," I admitted quietly. "He said safe words were for people who couldn't handle real submission. That if I really trusted him, I wouldn't need one."
Tyson's jaw clenched, but his touch stayed gentle. "That's bullshit. Safe words are what separate BDSM from abuse. They're what make the dynamic consensual instead of assault."
"I know that now." I managed a watery smile. "Took a lot of research and therapy to understand it wasn't my fault. That needing safety didn't make me weak."
"You're a strong person, Lena," he said simply, like it was fact instead of opinion. “The way you helped me when I had that gun . . . you’re incredible.”
I had to look away, overwhelmed. This morning felt surreal—sitting in my chaotic kitchen, negotiating kink contracts with a man who'd literally stood between me and danger just hours ago. A man who understood trauma, who carried his own demons but still made space for mine.
"Okay," I said, voice steadier. "Safe words established. What's next?"
He consulted his notes, professional mask sliding back into place. But I caught the way his eyes lingered on our joined hands before letting go.
"Structure and rules," he said. "But first, more coffee. This is going to take a while."
I laughed, tension breaking. "I'll make it extra strong. Something tells me we're going to need it."
After the pot was made and our cups refreshed, Tyson shifted in his chair. He took a breath, fingers drumming once against the legal pad before stilling. "So, what do you need? When you're little?"
The question hung between us, deceptively simple but loaded with years of shame and want. I fidgeted with my coffee mug, ceramic warm against my palms. How did I explain needs that Cruz had twisted into weaknesses? That even now, part of me cringed at admitting?
“I don’t really know. When I was with Cruz, I couldn’t just be Little. It was always in the context of him humiliating me, or sexualizing me. So . . . I don’t even know if I’ve ever really been Little.”
There was such emotion in his eyes, I almost gasped.
“Lena,” he said. “I’ll help you to find your Little. We’ll keep it separate from sex until you’re confident, and then we’ll only mix the two if you want it.”
“Thank you.”
“So, imagine it, a perfect space for you to be Little. What would help?”
"Structure, maybe?" I said finally, eyes fixed on the table's wood grain. "Regular bedtime, actual meals instead of cereal for dinner three nights running. Time set aside for creative stuff—coloring, painting, whatever."
He made notes, pen scratching softly. "What else?"
"But not..." I struggled, trying to find words for the suffocating weight of Cruz's version of structure. "Not controlling every minute. Not dictating everything. I need space to be bratty sometimes. To push back."
"Bratty." His lips definitely twitched this time. "Like coloring outside the lines on purpose?"
A surprised laugh bubbled up. "Like putting glitter in your helmet."
"You wouldn't." But his eyes crinkled at the corners, warmth breaking through the serious facade.
"Oh, I absolutely would." I grinned, feeling more like myself. "Fair warning—I have a craft store's worth of glitter and I'm not afraid to use it."
"Noted. Threat level: sparkly." He wrote something, then looked up. "So funishments for brattiness, not real punishments?"
The distinction made my chest tight with relief. He got it. Understood without me having to spell out how Cruz had used "punishment" as an excuse for cruelty.
"Yes. Important distinction." I leaned forward, needing him to understand. "Funishments can be playful. Writing lines about not putting glitter in tactical gear. Extra chores. Maybe a little sexy spanky time. Early bedtime without my stuffies—"
"Cruel and unusual," he interjected with mock seriousness.
"Right?" I smiled, then sobered. "But real punishments only for actual safety issues or hard limits. And never, ever when you're angry."
His pen stilled. "Totally," he agreed, writing it in capital letters. "Cool-down period required. We talk it through first, make sure we're both in the right headspace."
"Cruz used to . . ." I stopped, shaking my head. "No, we're not doing that. Not bringing him into this more than necessary."
"Sure, but your experiences matter," Tyson said gently. "They inform what you need now."
"He punished when he was angry." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "Said it was for my own good, but really he just liked hurting me when he was pissed. Called it discipline."
Tyson's knuckles went white around the pen. "That's abuse."
"I know. Now." I met his eyes steadily. "Took a while to understand the difference."
"We'll be clear about it," he promised. "Punishment is for learning, not for venting anger. Ever."
I nodded, throat thick. The morning sun had shifted, painting golden stripes across his face.
He looked softer in this light, younger despite the weight he carried.
It was easy to forget sometimes that he wasn't much older than me, that the war and trauma had aged him in ways that didn't show on his skin.
"What about rewards?" he asked, voice lighter like he sensed I needed the shift.
"Stickers," I said immediately, then felt heat crawl up my neck. "I know it's silly—"