Chapter 18. Kit
I wake up before Soren does. His bedroom is dim, morning light only just starting to press against the blinds, and for a few seconds I just lie there with my back against his chest, his arm heavy and warm across my ribs. I let myself have it before my brain catches up and ruins everything.
At some point after Totoro ended last night, Soren brought me in here. We slept. That was all. He meant it when he said we weren't doing anything more. My brain ruins it anyway. It always does. Last night sits behind my eyes the second I'm awake enough to let it.
His hand coming down. The heat of it. The way I cried into his chest afterward and he just held me, called me his good boy, and stayed until I stopped shaking.
It was the best thing that's happened to me in over a year.
And underneath all the good of it, quiet and insistent, is the old fear dragging itself up out of wherever I usually keep it buried.
He's going to see all of you now.
All the ugly parts.
And then he's going to leave, the way everyone eventually leaves.
Except this time you handed him the keys yourself.
I go still. I don't mean to. My whole body just locks up and my breathing goes thin and quick before I can stop it.
Soren wakes like he can feel it happening. Maybe he can.
"Hey."
His voice is rough with sleep. His arm tightens around me instead of loosening.
"Are you okay, sweetheart? What's happening?"
"Nothing."
My voice comes out small.
"Kit."
He says just my name, gentle. It undoes something in me anyway. I turn over to face him, and the second I do, my expression must give the whole thing away because his face changes immediately. Soft. Focused entirely on me. His beard, his eyes.
"There you are."
He pulls me properly against his chest, one broad hand coming up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading slowly through my hair.
"Talk to me."
"I don't want you to leave." It comes out in a rush, thin and childish. Nothing like the version of me who tells jokes at the bar. "Everyone leaves. Charles left. My dad basically packed us up and left every six months my whole childhood. I don't—I don't know how not to think that's what's coming."
"I'm not everyone. And I'm not going anywhere because of last night. Or because you let me see you cry. Or because of anything else you're scared I'm going to find."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually." He presses an easy kiss to the top of my head.
"Ni told me enough that first night to know you were carrying things.
Everything else, you've shown me yourself.
" His fingers move through my hair again.
"I picked this." My chest tightens. "I keep picking it, Kit.
" Another kiss. "Every day." I press my face into his chest instead of answering.
Breathe him in. I feel small. Smaller than I've let myself feel with anyone since Charles.
"Can we just stay here a minute?"
My voice is muffled against him.
"We can stay here as long as you need."
So we do. He doesn't rush it. Doesn't reach for his phone.
Doesn't check the time. He just holds me and lets his hand move steadily through my hair until my breathing evens out and the tightness in my chest loosens enough that I can feel the warmth of the room again instead of only the cold thing behind my ribs.
"Better?" he asks eventually.
"A little."
"Good."
He presses another kiss to my temple.
"Come on. I'm making eggs. Then you and I are going to talk about some things." My stomach tightens again. Soren notices. "Nothing scary." His thumb moves against my skin. "Rules. The dynamic. What you need from me. What I need from you. Structure." A pause. "You like structure."
"Yes, Daddy, I like structure," I agree, still small.
"Good boy,” he says it easily.
I follow him into the kitchen wearing one of his old T-shirts, which practically swallows me whole, and sit at the small square table while he cooks.
I watch his back. The way he moves through his own kitchen.
By the time he sets my plate down, I'm quieter than I've been in longer than I can remember.
Then I find myself staring at scrambled eggs.
Perfectly cooked. Folded with melted cheese.
Sitting in the center of a white ceramic plate while I push the same piece around with my fork for two full minutes.
The metal tines scrape softly against the porcelain.
Soren sits across from me with a ceramic mug of black coffee in his right hand.
"You're mutilating the eggs." I look up. "Eat, Kit."
"We're about to talk about our dynamic."
"I know."
"And I'm nervous."
"I know that too," he says, amused.
"I might need to mutilate something."
"The eggs have done nothing to deserve this."
I laugh.
But then the memories start coming. Charles. His rules. His silences. The way uncertainty could stretch for days until I couldn't tell whether I'd done something wrong or whether he was simply tired of me. My chest starts closing again.
"Tell me what's on your mind, baby boy."
Soren is looking at me with that infinite patience of his. I don't feel like I deserve it right now. I don't answer. He waits. Of course he does.
The silence gets bigger. Not cold. Just empty enough that eventually I have to put something honest inside it.
"He was volatile," I say quietly. And then everything comes pouring out. My eyes fill with tears. My chin starts shaking. "Charles. If I broke a rule, he didn't correct it cleanly. He'd just go cold."
Soren doesn't interrupt.
"The silence could last for days. He'd let me twist in it until I was begging him to tell me what I'd done wrong."
My fork drops onto the plate.
"I can't do the silence, Soren." My voice breaks. "I can't do withdrawal."
Soren reaches across the table and takes my hand.
"Listen to me."
I do.
"I do not use silence as a weapon." His voice is calm. "I do not withdraw care to teach a lesson. If you break a rule we've agreed on, I will tell you what happened. If there's a consequence, you will know what it is." His fingers close more securely around mine. "It happens. Then it's over."
My eyes burn.
"Clean. Done. We talk if we need to, I take care of you, and we move forward." His thumb moves once over my knuckles. "I don't disappear on you, Kit. And I don't leave you guessing where you stand with me."
I stare at our hands. I still want to cry. My lungs don't seem interested in working properly.
"Have you thought about some rules?" I ask. My voice is small.
"I have."
Soren keeps holding my hand.
"Rule one. Therapy."
I nod.
"You keep going. You attend the appointments you schedule. If you genuinely need to move one, you reschedule it. You do not disappear until they close your file."
"Okay."
"You're honest with your therapist."
His eyes hold mine.
"And you're honest with me about whether you're going."
"Okay."
"And your medication. You take it as prescribed. If you're struggling with that for any reason, you tell me. You don't quietly stop and hope nobody notices."
I swallow.
"Okay."
"Is any part of that something you don't want?"
I think about it. Actually think.
"No."
"Good."
His thumb strokes my hand.
"Rule two. Riding."
My stomach tightens.
"No solo rides when your head is loud."
"Soren—"
"Hear the whole thing first."
I close my mouth.
"If that noise starts building and you want to get on the bike, you call me.
" He doesn't sound angry. "We can ride together.
Normal road riding. You don't have to give up the thing you love every time you're having a bad day.
" That matters. It matters so much I almost can't look at him.
"But if what you want is speed—actual speed—or you want to push lean, traction, braking, any of it, we go to a track. "
I look back at him.
"No testing your limits on public roads." His fingers tighten around mine. "And you do not take that bike out alone because you're trying to find out how close you can get to the edge without falling over." My throat tightens. "That's a hard rule, baby. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Do you agree?"
Another thing we've apparently started doing. Making me say it. Making sure the answer belongs to me.
"Yes, Daddy."
"Good. Rule three. Communication."
I brace instinctively.
"You answer my texts."
I make a face.
"Within reason,” I say.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
"Within reason. I'm not expecting you to respond while you're working, asleep, or otherwise occupied."
"Reasonable."
"I try," he says. I chuckle softly. "You show up when you say you will.
No disappearing acts." His expression grows serious again.
"If you need space, you tell me you need space.
You can ask me not to contact you for a while.
You can tell me you need a day." I listen.
"But you do not vanish and leave the people who love you wondering whether you've wrapped yourself around a telephone pole. "
The words hit harder than I expect.
"We communicate," he says.
I look down.
"With each other," he adds. "That goes both ways."
My eyes lift.
"If I'm angry, I tell you. If I need something, I tell you. If I make a mistake, I own it."
Oh.
"Rules aren't only for you."
Something in my chest loosens.
"Okay."
Soren lets my hand go. I almost ask him to take it back. Then he says: "And the dynamic."
My whole body goes alert.
"The Little side."
His voice softens.
"The part of you that you thought disappeared when Charles left."
My eyes drop to the table.
"When you need to be small and let somebody else hold the wheel for a while, I'm willing to do that."
I look at him.
"If that's what you want."
I nod before catching myself.
"Yes."
"I'm willing to step fully into that role with you."
His eyes don't leave mine. "Daddy. Sir, if you ever want it. Whatever titles feel right between us. I'll hold the structure. You don't have to hold all of it yourself anymore."
I look down again. Terrified.
"And if I break a rule?"
"If you break a rule we've agreed carries a spanking as the consequence, I put you over my lap and I follow through."
A flush crawls up my neck.