"Then wherever you want. The mountain house. Here. A cardboard box under a bridge." He chuckled at my noise of protest. "Though I think we'll stick with indoor plumbing."
"Good plan."
"I have my moments."
"You have more than moments." I turned in his arms, needing to see his face. "You have me. Completely. Even the parts that throw furniture."
"Especially those parts." He traced my cheek with reverent fingers. "They're the parts that remind me you're real. Thatthis is real. That we're building something worth the broken chairs and cold showers."
"Worth the everything," I agreed, and kissed him.
Because he was right. We were worth the storms and the calm after. Worth the rage and the crawling. Worth every broken piece we'd show each other over the coming weeks, months, years.
Worth the work of becoming whole.
Together.
The Chair
Three weeks left had become two, and I'd found a rhythm in surrender. The meltdown had cleared something vital—not the anger itself, but the fear of it. Now when I felt the pressure building, I told him. Sometimes with words. Sometimes by crawling to his feet and pressing my face against his knee until he understood.
He always understood.
This morning, I woke humming. Some half-remembered lullaby that lived in my bones, maybe from before memory began. The sound felt strange in my throat—too soft, too content, too much like the girl I was becoming rather than the one I'd been.
"Someone's in a good mood." Gabriel's voice came from the doorway, warm with approval.
I didn't stop humming, just smiled and stretched, letting the pink sheets slip down to reveal the lavender nightgown he'dchosen. Everything felt soft this morning. Pliant. Like my bones had been replaced with something more willing to bend.
"Good morning, Daddy." The title came easier now, natural as breathing.
"Good morning, baby. Ready for today's session?"
"Yes." No hesitation, no bristling at the question. Just simple agreement that made his eyes darken with something that looked like pride.
"Come then. I have something special planned."
I followed without question, bare feet silent on plush carpet. He led me not to the usual session room but somewhere new—a space I'd never seen before, all white walls and medical cleanliness that should have felt threatening but didn't. Not with his hand warm on the small of my back, guiding me forward.
In the center sat a chair.
But calling it a chair was like calling the ocean a puddle. This was engineering elevated to art, all gleaming metal and strategic padding, restraint points that looked more like embrace than bondage. The seat itself was contoured, split in ways that made my breath catch as I understood its purpose.
"Custom built," he said, running a hand along one armrest with obvious pride. "Took months to get the specifications right. Every angle calculated for maximum effectiveness."
"It's beautiful," I said, and meant it. The way light caught the metal, the obvious care in its construction—this wasn't just equipment. This was devotion made manifest.
"You're beautiful." He turned me to face him, hands framing my face. "The chair is just a tool. You're the art."
I leaned into his touch, humming again. That soft sound that seemed to please him, make his thumbs stroke my cheeks with extra gentleness.
"So compliant this morning," he observed. "No fight at all. Should I be worried?"
"No." I turned my head to kiss his palm. "Just... tired of fighting. Tired of pretending I don't want what you give me. Tired of being anything but yours."
"Say that again."
"I'm tired of being anything but yours."
