She thought about it. Her fingers had stilled completely, resting quiet against my sweater.
"Vanilla," she said finally.
The choice made me smile. "Because it's the opposite of this."
"Because it's ordinary." A small smile touched her lips. "And this—what we're building—is anything but."
By the time the conversation wound down, the city outside my windows had shifted from morning grey to afternoon gold. We'd talked for hours. Two hours at least, maybe more. Time had lost its meaning somewhere between her confession about praise and my promise about anger.
What we had wasn't a contract. Wasn't a legal document or a checklist with little boxes ticked yes or no.
It was a language. A map. A framework for loving each other safely, with all our broken edges and strange shapes accounted for.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For taking this seriously. For making me feel like my needs matter."
I reached across the space between us—slowly, giving her time to pull back—and took her hand.
"They do matter. They always will."
Her fingers curled around mine. Holding tight. Holding on.
There was one more thing. I'd been circling it for a while, watching for the right moment, afraid of presuming too much.
"There's one more thing," I said.
The hesitation in my voice must have been audible. Auralia's eyes sharpened, her body going still with that particular attention she gave to things that mattered.
"In some dynamics," I continued, choosing my words carefully, "there's a symbol. Something physical. To mark the commitment."
Her breath caught. I watched it happen—the small intake of air, the way her chest stilled.
"A collar."
The word landed between us like something sacred. Something heavy with meaning.
"Only if you want it." I couldn't look at her. Couldn't bear to see rejection or discomfort in her face. My eyes fixed on our joined hands instead, her fingers still wrapped around mine. "It doesn't have to be literal. It could be a bracelet, a ring, anything that—"
"I want it."
Her voice was barely a whisper. But the certainty in it—absolute. Unshakeable.
I looked up.
Her grey-green eyes were shining with something fierce and desperate. Not just want. Need.
"I want something I can touch," she said. The words came out in a rush. "Something that reminds me I'm yours when you're not there. When my brain gets too loud and I can't remember what's real. Something physical. Something that exists in the world."
I hadn't dared hope. Hadn't let myself imagine that she would want this—the visible, tangible mark of belonging. I'd prepared myself for negotiation, for hesitation, for the careful distance that came with taking things slow.
Instead, she was asking for more.
"I don't have one," I admitted. The confession felt like failure. "I hadn't—I didn't want to assume. To presume that you'd want something permanent before we'd even—"
"Maks. Lis." She squeezed my hand. "I don't need you to have all the answers. I just need you to want to figure them out with me."
The simplicity of it moved me.
"Then we'll go together," I said. My voice came out rough. Unsteady. "To choose. There's a place in the city—discreet, high-quality. They make custom pieces. We can find something that's right for you. For us."
