Page 139 of Redline Baby

“This isn’t because you did something wrong. This is because you’re mine, I take care of what’s mine, and I want you to feel something your head is still having trouble believing.” His breath catches. “I’m staying.” I bring my palm down. Kit’s exhale comes out sharp. His grip on the duvet tightens.

I let the sting have its moment. One second. Two. Then I bring my hand down again. Same weight. Same rhythm.

“This is for every night you lay in an apartment with nothing in it that felt worth going home to,” I say, my palm landing again, “and told yourself that was simply how things were.”

He makes a sound. Small. Bitten off. His hips shift beneath me. I continue, unhurried and even. After a few more strikes, I lower his pants and boxers with the standing consent we have already established, baring him fully over my lap. His breathing changes. Less controlled now. Ragged around the edges. He starts whining.

“Daddy…”

His voice cracks around the word.

“I’m here.”

My palm lands again.

“I’m not finished, and I’m not leaving. Both of those things are true at the same time.”

Another.

“That’s the lesson, baby.”

Another.

“Something can still be hard between us, and I can still stay.”

His shoulders drop. There. He stops bracing against it. The grip on the duvet loosens. I keep going. Not hard enough to punish. Enough to build heat. Enough that his skin turns pink beneath my hand and then deeper, his body softening over my lap as the rhythm does what words still cannot quite manage.

Eventually, I slow. “You don’t have to earn staying,” I tell him. My palm lands once more, softer now. “You don’t have to be fixed first.” Another. “You don’t have to wait until there’s nothing left wrong before you’re allowed to believe I mean it.”

My hand gentles over his heated skin.

“I mean it now.”

Kit’s breathing catches.

“Exactly as you are. Therapy attended. Meds managed. Good days. Bad days. The days you scare me. The days you make me laugh so hard I forget what I was doing.” A tiny sound comes from him. “You are not a project.” His breath breaks. “This isn’t conditional, Kit.” I rest my palm flat against the warmth I made. “It was never going to be.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. Then I say: “Tell me.” His fingers tighten once. “Not ‘yes, Daddy.’ The actual thing.” I wait. “Tell me what you know now that you didn’t know yesterday.”

It takes him a while. His breath hitches once. Twice. Then: “You’re not leaving.” The words are muffled against the duvet. Small. Raw. “Even when everything’s fixed.”

I rub my thumb slowly against his back.

“Keep going.”

“Even when I’m not…” His voice catches. “A project anymore.”

“You were never a project.”

He breathes.

“You’re just staying because you want to.”

“That’s right.”

Another shaky inhale.

“Even if I get better.”