"What do you need to know?" she asked finally, voice barely above a whisper.
"Everything." The word came out more intense than I intended. "What makes you feel safe. What triggers regression. What you need when you're small versus when you're big. The things you're afraid to ask for. The things that would break you if someone got them wrong."
She took a breath, and I watched her make the decision—watched her choose to trust me with pieces of herself that had been used against her before.
"When I'm small," she began, "I need structure. Someone else making decisions because I genuinely can't. Enforced limits—bedtimes, meals, when to stop working. I lose track of time, forget to eat, can't judge when I've pushed too far." Her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt. "I need rules that don't change. Consistency. If you say something will happen, it has to happen. The uncertainty is what makes me spiral."
I was memorizing every word, building frameworks in my mind, cataloging her needs the way I'd catalog an enemy's weaknesses—except this was the opposite of war.
"Physical needs?"
"Touch." The word came out rough, almost desperate. "Being held. Having my hair played with. Soft textures—hence the sweater destruction." A ghost of a smile. "But also . . ." She paused, cheeks flushing.
"Tell me."
"Being controlled. Physically." Her voice had dropped, and I could see her pulse jumping in her throat. "Positioned. Moved where you want me. Held down when I struggle—not violently, but inescapably. I need to know I can fight and you won't let me hurt myself with my own resistance."
My hands curled into fists against my thighs, the image of her beneath me—struggling, surrendering—making my blood run hot.
"Punishment?" I asked, keeping my voice steady through sheer will.
"Yes." The word escaped in a rush. "Consequences for breaking rules. Being made to obey even when—especially when—I'm being difficult. I'll test you, Kostya. I'll push back even when I need the structure. I need to know you'll hold the line."
"I will."
"How do you know?"
I stood then, too restless to stay seated, and moved to the window. The moon hung heavy over the compound, silver light cutting across the floor between us.
"Because holding the line is what I do," I said. "Because I've been waiting my whole life to protect something that matters. Because the thought of failing you—" I stopped, jaw tight. "I won't. That's not a promise I'm making to convince you. It's just the truth."
"What about you?" she asked, and I heard her stand, felt her move closer behind me. "What do you need from this?"
The question cracked something open in my chest. I turned to face her, found her closer than expected, moonlight catching the hope and fear in her eyes.
"To be useful for something other than destruction," I said. "To matter to someone in a way that isn't about violence or fear. To have someone trust me enough to be truly vulnerable—to know they're choosing to submit, not being forced."
"And physically?"
The question hung between us, charged. She was close enough that I could smell her—vanilla and warmth, that scent that had started to meanMayaandmineandcareful.
"Control," I admitted. "Obedience that's given, not taken. Seeing you let go completely because you trust me to catch you." I reached out, let my fingers brush her jaw—the lightest touch, a question. "Watching the moment you stop fighting and just . . . surrender."
Her breath caught. She leaned into my touch, just slightly, and it took everything I had not to pull her against me.
"Safe words," I made myself say, dropping my hand before I lost the thread of responsibility. "We need them established before anything else."
She blinked, coming back from whatever space she'd been drifting toward. "Red for stop. Yellow for slow down. Green for keep going."
"If you say red, everything stops. Immediately. No questions, no negotiation. Even if you're deep in headspace and not sure you mean it—we stop, we check in, we don't continue until you're fully present and confirm you want to."
"Okay."
"Hard limits. Things that are absolutely off the table, no matter what."
Her expression flickered—something dark passing through. "Being called weak. Being told I'm too much, too needy, too broken. Having my regression used as evidence I'm incompetent." She held my gaze. "Being abandoned after being seen."
The last one hit like a punch to the chest. The specific fear of someone who'd been left before, after being vulnerable.
