"Shh." His thumb traced my lips. "You've earned five minutes. Make them count."
I climbed into his lap without asking, some instinct knowing it was allowed. He let me arrange myself—legs tucked up, head on his chest, every possible inch of me pressed against him. His arms came around me, and the relief was so intense I shook with it.
"Better?"
"So much better." I burrowed closer, breathing him in. "Feel real again. Feel yours."
"You're always mine. Even untouched, you're mine."
"But this makes it true." I pressed my ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "This makes it something I can believe."
His hand found my hair, stroking gently. Each touch felt like electricity, like proof of existence, like coming home after years of wandering. I made a sound—not quite humming, not quite purring—that seemed to please him.
"Tell me what touch means to you," he said quietly.
"Safety." The words came without thought. "Connection. Proof that I'm not too much or too broken or too difficult to hold."
"What else?"
"Love." Whispered, terrified. "It means you want me close. That I've been good enough to deserve proximity. That I matter enough to reach for."
"You always matter."
"But when you touch me, I believe it." I pressed closer, aware our time was running out. "When you hold me, all the voices saying I'm worthless go quiet."
"And when I don't?"
"They get loud again. Tell me I've done something wrong. That I've finally pushed too far." My fingers clutched his sweater. "That you've realized I'm not worth the effort."
"Look at me."
I pulled back enough to meet his eyes, though it meant losing precious contact.
"You are worth every effort," he said firmly. "Every moment of training. Every careful boundary. Every hour spent teaching you to value yourself even when my hands aren't on you."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Then we'll practice." His five minutes were up, but he didn't push me away. Instead, he adjusted our position—me still in his lap but no longer clinging. "New rule. You can earn touch throughout the day. Moments of perfect obedience get rewarded with contact. The better you are, the longer it lasts."
"What counts as perfect?"
"Following instructions immediately. Expressing needs clearly. Accepting what's given without begging for more." His hand rested on my knee, warm and present. "Showing me youcan be good because you choose to be, not because you're desperate."
"I am desperate," I admitted.
"I know. But desperation doesn't have to control you." He squeezed gently. "It can be acknowledged, felt, even expressed. But it doesn't have to drive every action."
"How?"
"Practice. Starting now." He lifted me from his lap, setting me carefully on the floor. The loss of contact hurt, but I didn't grab for him. "Kneel there. Back straight. Hands on your thighs. Show me you can be still without touch."
I arranged myself as instructed, fighting the urge to lean toward him. The position was familiar—we'd practiced it dozens of times. But never when I was skin-hungry, never when every cell screamed for contact.
"Good." Just the word made warmth bloom in my chest. "Now tell me about yesterday. What you thought about during isolation."
"I thought about the mountain house," I said, keeping my posture perfect. "Wondered what it looks like. Whether it has big windows. Whether there's space for all your equipment or if we'll have to be creative."
"Creative how?"
