"I know." He stood, moving around the island to pull me into his arms. "But I'll be with you the whole time. Every second. You won't be alone in your vulnerability."
I pressed my face into his chest, breathing in sandalwood and safety. Yesterday at the beach, I'd managed to be little in public because he'd created such careful boundaries around us. Made me feel protected even in the open. Maybe he could do the same in a place designed specifically for this. Maybe I could trust him enough to try.
"Okay," I whispered into his shirt. "Let's try."
When I pulled back to look at his face, the relief there was profound. This mattered to him too—not just my healing, but being the Daddy who helped me heal. Being worthy of the trust I was placing in his capable hands.
"Thank you," he said, kissing my forehead. "I promise, baby girl. Nothing bad will happen."
I wanted to believe him. I chose to believe him. Because the alternative—staying locked in partial regression forever, never knowing if I could be fully Little again—was worse than the fear of trying.
ThecarridetoChelsea passed in a blur of Sunday morning Manhattan—empty streets and closed storefronts, the city still sleeping off Saturday night. I watched the buildings slide past through tinted windows, my hands twisted together in my lap hard enough that my fingers went numb. Nikolai's hand covered both of mine, his thumb finding my racing pulse, and he didn't try to fill the silence with empty reassurances. Just held on while I tried not to spiral.
The building was unremarkable from the outside—gray stone, maybe six stories, the kind of place you'd walk past without noticing. No signs. No indication of what happened behind those discrete windows. Just an address in brass numbers next to a buzzer system that probably cost more than most people's cars.
Nikolai pressed the button. A pause, then: "Name and appointment time, please."
"Besharov. Ten o'clock."
The door clicked open without further comment.
Inside was all professional polish—marble floors, recessed lighting, a security desk staffed by a woman in a tailored suit who looked like she could kill you with her letter opener. She checked our IDs with the kind of thoroughness usually reserved for international borders, then slid two NDAs across the desk.
"Standard confidentiality agreement," she explained. "Protects all parties involved. Please initial each page."
My hands shook signing my name—Sophie Katerina Volkov, all three parts of me documented on legal paper that promised this secret would stay locked behind these walls. Nikolai signed his with steady precision, then returned both documents with a nod that was probably some kind of pakhan-to-security acknowledgment.
Beyond the lobby, everything changed.
The hallway was painted soft lavender, the lighting warm instead of institutional. The floors were covered in plush carpet that swallowed sound. And everywhere—everywhere—was evidence of care. Of thought. Of understanding exactly what people came here to find.
A woman emerged from a side office, her smile genuine and warm. Mid-forties maybe, with kind eyes and a clipboard that she carried like it was the most important thing in the world.
"Mr. Besharov," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Jessica. We spoke on the phone."
"Jessica." He shook her hand, then turned slightly toward me. "This is my girlfriend, Sophie."
"Sophie." She looked at me directly, not through me or past me the way some people did when they realized what you were herefor. "It's wonderful to meet you. Thank you for trusting us with your care today."
My throat was too tight to respond, but I managed a nod.
"Let me show you to your room," Jessica said, already moving down the hallway. "Mr. Besharov requested the Garden Room, which I think you'll find perfect for a first visit."
We passed other rooms as we walked. Through open doors, I caught glimpses of different worlds. A princess room with a canopy bed draped in pink silk and a trunk overflowing with dress-up clothes. A nursery complete with a crib that could definitely fit an adult and a changing table that made my face burn with implications I wasn't ready to process. An art studio with easels and finger paints and paper covering every available surface. A library with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with picture books, the spines arranged by color in a rainbow that made my photographic memory catalog every title automatically.
Each room was a different kind of sanctuary. A different way to be small.
"We have fifteen themed spaces total," Jessica explained, her voice low and soothing like she knew I was probably spiraling. "But the Garden Room tends to be popular for first-time visitors. It's less . . . specific. More open to interpretation."
We stopped at a door near the end of the hall. Jessica pulled out a keycard, but paused before swiping it.
"Before we go in, I want you to know what to expect." She looked at me again with those kind eyes. "The room is yours for as long as you need it today. It locks from the inside—you control access. There's a panic button on the wall if you need immediate assistance, and a phone that connects directly to my desk if you want to talk or need anything. The bathroom is attached and has both adult and child-friendly options." She paused. "There's no wrong way to be Little here, Sophie. Some people play. Somepeople just sit and exist in the space. Some people aren't ready to engage at all, and that's okay too. This is your experience. Your regression. Your healing."
The words were probably meant to be comforting, but they just highlighted how vulnerable I was about to be. How exposed.
The door opened onto paradise designed by someone who understood exactly what broken Littles needed.
The walls were painted with a garden mural—flowers and trees and butterflies so detailed they could have been photographs. The carpet was soft grass-green, thick enough that walking on it barefoot would feel like actual grass. Beanbags and cushions were scattered around in jewel tones—deep purple, emerald green, sapphire blue. Shelves lined one wall, packed with toys and stuffed animals organized by type. A play kitchen occupied one corner, all pastel colors and realistic details. And in the opposite corner, a reading nook with a rocking chair and a lamp that cast golden light like perpetual sunset.
