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He shakes his head, a little tremble in his chin, and hugs his knees up to his chest. “Can I… just wear it for a bit?”
“You can do anything you want, princess.” I stroke his hair.
His eyes begin going soft almost immediately.
I scoot up the bed and draw him with me, easing him around until he’s curled into my lap, head tucked under my chin like he was born to fit there. The crinkle of the diaper is a little ridiculous, but also so sweet I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning and fucking up the moment. He melts against me as if his bones have gone soft, his breath slowing and growing heavy as he works the pacifier in his mouth.
“There’s my sweet baby,” I say, running my palm down his back, feeling the rise and fall as he relaxes deeper with every pass. I shift us back against the pillows until I’m practically cradling him, his bare thighs resting over mine, his calf stretched beside my hip.
I’m a sucker, an absolute fucking disaster, because nothing has ever made me feel so fucking proud.
“That’s it…” I murmur, pressing my mouth to the top of his head. “You did so good, Kammie. Proud of you for telling Daddy how you feel. You don’t ever have to wear it again, if you don’t want to. But if you do, you let me know, okay?”
A little nod, pacifier bobbing.
“Want a blanket?”
He nods again, so I reach down and tug the throw from the bottom of the bed, wrapping him up in it, tucking it around his shoulders like a human burrito. He snuggles down, and I rub his back, slow and soothing, letting the soft weight of him settle into me. It’s different than when he falls asleep after an orgasm, or after a panic attack; this is something purer. Lighter. Like the weight I’m holding is his heart, and he’s trusting me not to break it.
I don’t know what the fuck I did in a previous life to deserve this, but I’m not about to let go.
John gave me a fucking gift.
A beautiful, wonderful gift.
“Such a good boy,” I say, just to see the way Kamden lights up at the words. “Daddy’s perfect little princess.”
He presses his face to my chest, right over my heart. I don’t think he realizes what he’s doing, but I do.
God, I love this boy.
And I know what I need to do next.
* * *
The next morning, I knock because breaking in feels impolite.
I stand on the sagging porch outside Sherry Blake’s house with one hand in my coat pocket and the other curled loosely at my side, staring at the same chipped paint and crooked porch rail I watched for days before I took Kamden away from this place.
The house looks even uglier now, like I can see what it is now that he isn’t inside it. A container. A place where people put all the things they didn’t want to deal with.
Including him.
I knock again and am met by silence.
I look down the street, then back toward the door.
Before I left, I’d gotten Kamden cleaned up and settled, made sure he had food and water, and left him comfortably full with a butt plug after we’d talked about what we might do later.
He thinks I’m running an errand; I am, in a way.
I knock a third time, harder, and even call out, “Sherry.”
Still nothing.
I hit the door again with the heel of my prosthetic hand, and this time the sound booms through the house hard enough that something inside rattles.
“Open the fucking door,” I growl.
