Jace: Doing it.
Me: Color before lights out.
Jace: Okay.
I walked through the house while I waited. Checked the back door. Turned off the kitchen light. Let Tiny out one last time, then stood in the cold air while he inspected the yard as if major diplomatic incidents had occurred since his last patrol. My phone stayed in my hand.
That was the realization that arrived without mercy.
Not the desire. I had admitted that in pieces, in alleys, in hotel rooms, in the way my hands remembered his body.
Not the guilt. That had been there from the beginning, disciplined and ugly and deserved.
This was different.
I was waiting.
Listening for the vibration. Measuring minutes. Building my own stillness around a message from him.
I had told myself this dynamic worked because Jace needed structure and I could provide it. Because his brain responded to clear expectations. Because a color system was practical. Because rules kept both of us from turning want into damage.
All true.
Not enough.
I wanted the message because it told me he had thought of me when the day got quiet.
I wanted the obedience because it was trust made visible.
I wanted to be the person he checked in with before sleep, not because he was incapable of managing without me, but because he chose the shape we had made together.
My phone buzzed at 11:22.
Jace: Green. Teeth brushed. Shoes and hoodie by door. Phone going across room now. If I don’t answer, it’s not drama, it’s because you told me not to touch it.
I sat on the edge of the couch. Tiny lifted his head from his bed, decided I was not doing anything interesting, and dropped it again.
Me: Good. Sleep.
Jace: You too?
I stared at the question.
Simple. Dangerous.
He was asking for reciprocity without making it heavy. Not a declaration. Not a demand that I admit what this was becoming. Just a mirror held up between us.
Me: Yes.
Jace: Okay.
A second later:
Jace: Green.
Again.
As if he wanted that to be the last thing between us.
