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“Shut up.”

He nudged my foot under the table. “You know what I notice about you when you talk about him? You don’t sound scared.”

“I am a bit,” I admitted.

“Of what?”

“Of it being real.”

He nodded as though that made total sense.

We sat there in silence for a minute.

“I don’t want someone to own me,” I said eventually. “I want someone to choose me.”

Sam’s expression softened. “That’s different.”

“Yeah.” It felt new too.

He stood. “Thanks for the milk. I’m going to finish mine in bed, and hopefully I’ll fall asleep quickly.”

“Only if you decide to not think about Caroline. Save that for daylight hours.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like good advice.” He walked out of the conservatory, leaving me with my mug, the moonlit garden, and the uncomfortable fact that I’d apparently admitted I wanted something that lasted.

Which was a lot for a Tuesday.

Wednesday now, remember?

I finished my milk, rinsed the mug, set it in the drying rack, and padded back down the hallway. The floorboards creaked in familiar places. I climbed the stairs and paused outside my bedroom door.

I don’t want someone to own me. I want someone to choose me.

God. Who even was I tonight?

I pushed the door open. My harness hung over the wardrobe door. My cuffs were on the chair.

It had been an intense couple of days.

I’d thought him fucking me on his couch had been a shocker, but the way he’d said You can stay, as if it had surprised him as much as me, was a far bigger one.

I climbed into bed and pulled the duvet up to my chin. My body was tired, but my brain was replaying everything in high definition.

So much for warm milk.

My phone buzzed, and I froze. I glanced at the screen.

Max.

I grabbed it.

Max: Are you free Wednesday?

I stared at the screen, and it took a second for my brain to catch up.

Wednesday.

That wasn’t routine. That wasn’t club-schedule talk.