The conviction in her voice made my chest tight. Made me want to believe her. Want to say yes and pull out that contract and bind her to me in every possible way.
But the responsible part of me—the Pakhan who'd spent years learning to think three moves ahead—couldn't let it go that easily.
"And if it brings up too much?" I asked. "If you regress and it triggers memories of that night? If being Little feels too dangerous or too painful?"
"Then I'll tell you." Simple. Direct. "I'll use my safeword. I'll communicate. We'll figure it out together." She shifted in my lap, sitting up straighter, more present. "But Nikolai, please—don't take this choice away from me because you're afraid I can't handle it. Let me make this decision. Let me try."
The please nearly broke me. The way she was advocating for herself, for her own agency, even while sitting in my lap after crying herself raw.
She was stronger than I'd given her credit for. Braver than she knew.
And she was right. Taking the choice away—deciding for her what she could or couldn't handle—would be another form of control she didn't consent to. Would be me imposing my will because I thought I knew better.
That wasn't partnership. That wasn't trust.
"Okay," I said quietly.
Her eyes widened. "Okay?"
"We'll try. But—" I held up a hand before she could celebrate. "We go slow. We establish rules first, simple ones. You can regress when it feels natural, but I'm not forcing it. I'm not pushing you into Little space before you're ready."
She nodded quickly. "Yes. Okay. That's good."
"And we have check-ins," I continued. "Daily, at minimum. You tell me how you're feeling, what's working, what's not. If it gets to be too much—if the trauma is too present or the dynamic isn't helping—we pause. We amend the contract. We figure out what you need."
"Deal." She was almost smiling now. Hope lighting up her devastated face.
"I'm serious, Sophie. Your mental health comes first. Before my desire to care for you. Before your desire to be Little. If this isn't healthy, we stop."
"I understand." She cupped my face in her small hands. The gesture was surprisingly tender. Intimate. "Thank you. For caring enough to worry. For wanting to protect me even from myself. But I can do this. We can do this."
I kissed her forehead. Couldn't help it. Just pressed my lips against her skin and breathed her in—lavender soap and tears and trust.
She relaxed against me again. Not crying now. Just resting. Like she'd finally set down weight she'd been carrying too long.
We sat like that for another few minutes. Letting the decision settle. Letting the emotional intensity of the last hour start to ease.
Finally she stirred. "We should probably get back to the contract."
"Probably." But I didn't let go immediately. Couldn't quite make myself release her yet.
She felt it too. The way she tightened her arms around my neck briefly before pulling back. The reluctance to separate.
But we had work to do. Terms to negotiate. Boundaries to establish. The practical structure that would make the emotional connection safe.
I helped her stand. Her legs were shaky. I steadied her with a hand on her waist until she found her balance.
"More tea?" I offered.
"Please."
I poured fresh cups. The ritual gave us both a moment to compose ourselves. To shift from that raw vulnerability back into something more controlled.
She returned to her chair. I took mine. The space between us felt different now. Charged with intimacy rather than awkwardness. We'd crossed some threshold together.
I pulled out the contract portfolio. Found the addendum with optional clauses. Set it between us where we could both see.
"Let's talk about rules," I said.
