"Morning, printsessa," he murmured against my skin. "Sleep well?"
"Like the dead," I said, then winced. Bad metaphor. But he just hummed agreement and extracted himself with carefulprecision, like he was aware my knee needed space to wake up before I did.
"Stay," he said. "I'll make breakfast."
I watched him leave—gray sweatpants and bare chest, hair sleep-mussed in ways that shouldn't be legal—and let myself sprawl across the California king like a starfish claiming territory. His sheets smelled like him. Sandalwood and something sharper, bright and citrusy. I could get used to this. Waking up in his bed. Being claimed by his scent. Belonging somewhere that felt like home.
Twenty minutes later, I padded into the kitchen wearing his t-shirt and my sleep shorts. He'd set the island with actual place settings—cloth napkins, good coffee in matching mugs, a spread that looked like he'd robbed a five-star brunch buffet. Blini with caviar and sour cream. Fresh berries. Perfectly soft-scrambled eggs with chives. Orange juice in crystal glasses.
"You know I would've been happy with cereal," I said, sliding onto my usual barstool.
"I know." He poured my coffee, adding cream without asking because he'd memorized how I took it. "But you deserve better than cereal."
We ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes. Yesterday's beach trip hung between us like a photograph developing—all those careful moments where he'd helped me feel safe being small in public. Building sandcastles. Collecting shells. Him reading to me under the umbrella while I colored in my book. Each memory was warm and perfect and terrifying because wanting something this much meant it could be taken away.
"Sophie." He set down his fork, his gray eyes finding mine with that intensity that always made my pulse stutter. "I've been thinking, sweetheart, and I want to take you somewhere today."
My stomach did something complicated. "Where?"
"A place where you can be Little. Really Little. Without fear." He paused, choosing words with his usual precision. "Have you heard of Littlespace NYC?"
I shook my head, but my hands had already found the edge of the counter, holding on.
"It's a private facility in Manhattan," he continued. "Caters specifically to the DDlg community. Safe, vetted, with playrooms and activities and caregivers who understand regression. Everything is discrete, secure. NDAs required. The kind of place where you don't have to worry about judgment or exposure."
The description should have sounded appealing. It probably would have, if my chest wasn't currently trying to collapse in on itself.
"Why?" I managed.
"Because you haven't fully let go since Sergei." His voice gentled, but the observation landed like a physical weight. "You hover at the edge. Yesterday, I felt you pulling back. You stay partially aware. I can see you, devotchka. Protecting yourself."
He wasn't wrong. Even when I slipped into little space at home—coloring in his lap or playing with my stuffies—some part of me stayed vigilant. Watching. Making sure I was safe. Making sure the world wouldn't end if I stopped paying attention for five minutes.
"That's normal," I said, defensive without meaning to be. "After what happened—"
"I know." He reached across the island, covering my hand with his. "And I'm not criticizing. I'm observing. You deserve to feel completely safe when you're small. Not constantly monitoring whether something terrible is about to happen."
My throat closed around words I couldn't form. The memory of Sergei dying in my lap while I was little—blood on my hands, his life leaving while I was too small to understand, toovulnerable to save him—lived in my bones. Being fully little meant being fully defenseless.
"I don’t know if I can," I whispered.
"I want to give you a space where you don't have to protect yourself," Nikolai continued, his thumb tracing circles on my knuckles. "Where you can be completely small. Where I'll keep you safe. Where the only thing you have to worry about is whether to play with blocks or stuffed animals."
The image he painted was so appealing it hurt. Being that small again. That free. Not having to maintain the exhausting vigilance that came with partial regression.
"What if I can't come back?" The fear escaped before I could stop it. "What if I go that deep and get stuck?"
"You won't." He said it with absolute certainty. "Your mind is too brilliant to get lost. But even if you did struggle coming back up, I'd help you. That's what I'm for."
I stared at our joined hands. His were so much larger than mine, capable of violence but choosing gentleness. Choosing me.
"What if the memories overwhelm me?" I asked quietly. "What if being that little just makes me relive—"
"Then we leave." He leaned forward, bringing himself closer to my eye level. "We'll go slow. Any time you want to stop, we stop. Your safeword works there just like it works at home. But Sophie—" His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I think you need this. I think you need to know you can be Little again without something terrible happening."
My eyes burned with tears I refused to shed into my overpriced eggs. He was right. I knew he was right. But knowing and doing were different creatures entirely.
"I'm scared," I admitted.
