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The shameful part wants even more than that.

My whole life, Mom’s approval was bruised into me like a thumbprint. Her pride came in sharp, ragged slices. If I got above a certain GPA, she wouldn’t call me stupid like she normally does; if I kept the house up to her standards, maybe she’d tell her current boyfriend to stop bothering me for the night. If I gave her enough money, she’d sometimes sit on the couch while I watched TV.

Adrien’s approval doesn’t feel like that. It’s not that he doesn’t care whether I succeed or fail, but he said that as long as I try my best, he’ll be happy. He keeps acting like that’s enough, like I’m enough, and my battered sense of self wants to test if that’s really true.

Even now, as a literal hostage, I crave the steadiness in his voice, the way “good boy” sounds when he says it.

Maybe that’s because Mom never called me good. Maybe it’s because when Dad died, so did hearing things like “That’s amazing, Kammie!” “My beautiful princess” and “You make me so proud.”

Maybe… this is how I can hear those kinds of things again.

“Hey. What’s going on in there, Kamden? You okay?”

I squirm involuntarily, my whole self shrinking into my chest and my rabbit, and mutter, “It’s nothing.”

There’s a pause, then he asks softly, “Do you want to ask me something?”

“No.”

He leans forward, arms crossed, all his attention on me. It feels like a physical weight. “Because you look like you’re going to chew through your own lip if you keep thinking this hard.”

I scrape my thumbnail along my palm until it anchors me. “I just… You said if I was good, I’d get more freedom. Right?”

“Right.”

“But what is ‘good,’ exactly? Is it just not escaping? And following orders?” My voice is small.

Adrien’s mouth quirks, not quite a smile but something unguarded. “Being good means telling me what you need. It means not letting your fear make your decisions for you. It means…” He breathes in, steadies himself. “It means being honest. Even if you think I’ll get mad. Even if you’re embarrassed.”

“Oh. That’s so much.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t deny it. “But I know you can do it.”

I think I can, but what if…

“What if,” I whisper, “I’m never good enough?”

The question hangs in the air like a rotten fruit, impossible to take back.

He clears his throat after giving me a look I can’t decipher. “You’re already good enough.”

11

Adrien

Kamden stares at me.

I’m not entirely sure he understood what I said, because his expression doesn’t change so much as empty out, every little defensive crease around his mouth and brows smoothing away until he looks younger than nineteen and somehow more wounded for it.

Then his eyes lower, and his fingers tighten around his stuffed animal.

“Oh.”

That’s all.

Just one tiny word, spoken like I’ve handed him something too delicate to hold without breaking.

I should probably leave it there.