She nodded. Her hands were twisting in her lap.
"Can you do that?" I asked.
"Yes." The word came out barely above a whisper.
I reached for the tea service. Poured for both of us. Added honey and cream to hers, the way she liked it. The ritual gave us both a moment to breathe.
"Then let's begin," I said.
We started with the easy rules. Bedtime at 10 PM on weeknights. Three meals a day, no skipping. Checking in when leaving the compound. Sophie nodded at everything. Agreed to it all. Sipped her tea and said yes and of course and that makes sense.
Too quickly. Too easily. Like she was checking boxes instead of engaging with what I was actually asking.
"So you'll commit to three meals daily," I said, testing. "Even when you're stressed or overwhelmed or don't feel hungry."
"Yes." No hesitation. Her hands were wrapped around her teacup like it was armor.
"And you'll tell me if you're struggling. If the structure feels too restrictive or if you need something different."
"Of course."
"And when you're Little, you'll let me know what you need in that headspace. What kind of care, what activities, what makes you feel safe versus what makes you anxious."
"Absolutely." She took another sip of tea. Wouldn't meet my eyes fully. Just kept glancing at me then looking away.
I set my own cup down. The clink of porcelain against saucer was too loud in the quiet study.
This wasn't working.
She wasn't lying exactly. But she wasn't being honest either. She was being compliant. Agreeable. Telling me what she thought I wanted to hear so we could move forward with the contract and she could have what she wanted—rules and structure and someone to make decisions.
But that's not how this worked. Couldn't work. Not if it was going to be safe and healthy and real.
I tried a different approach. "What do you need when you're feeling overwhelmed?"
"Structure," she said immediately. "Clear expectations. Someone to tell me what to do."
"What else?"
A pause. Longer than before. "I don't know. Physical touch? Maybe?"
Maybe. Like she wasn't sure. Like she was guessing at what I wanted to hear instead of telling me what she actually needed.
"Sophie, what scares you about this arrangement?"
"Nothing." Too fast. Defensive. "I want this. I've been thinking about it for weeks."
"What scares you," I repeated. Not a question this time. A demand.
She shifted in her chair. The pink sweater made her look soft but her body language was rigid. Protected. "I don't know. Normal things. That I'll mess up. That I won't be good at being Little. That you'll—"
She stopped. Bit her lip. Looked away.
"That I'll what?" I pressed.
"That you'll regret it." Quiet. Vulnerable. Finally something real. "That you'll realize I'm too broken or too difficult and you'll change your mind."
There. That was honest. That was the fear underneath all the compliance.
