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He consulted his notes, professional mask sliding back into place. But I caught the way his eyes lingered on our joined hands before letting go.

"Structure and rules," he said. "But first, more coffee. This is going to take a while."

I laughed, tension breaking. "I'll make it extra strong. Something tells me we're going to need it."

After the pot was made and our cups refreshed, Tyson shifted in his chair. He took a breath, fingers drumming once againstthe legal pad before stilling. "So, what do you need? When you're little?"

The question hung between us, deceptively simple but loaded with years of shame and want. I fidgeted with my coffee mug, ceramic warm against my palms. How did I explain needs that Cruz had twisted into weaknesses? That even now, part of me cringed at admitting?

“I don’t really know. When I was with Cruz, I couldn’t just be Little. It was always in the context of him humiliating me, or sexualizing me. So . . . I don’t even know if I’ve ever really been Little.”

There was such emotion in his eyes, I almost gasped.

“Lena,” he said. “I’ll help you to find your Little. We’ll keep it separate from sex until you’re confident, and then we’ll only mix the two ifyouwant it.”

“Thank you.”

“So, imagine it, a perfect space for you to be Little. What would help?”

"Structure, maybe?" I said finally, eyes fixed on the table's wood grain. "Regular bedtime, actual meals instead of cereal for dinner three nights running. Time set aside for creative stuff—coloring, painting, whatever."

He made notes, pen scratching softly. "What else?"

"But not..." I struggled, trying to find words for the suffocating weight of Cruz's version of structure. "Not controlling every minute. Not dictating everything. I need space to be bratty sometimes. To push back."

"Bratty." His lips definitely twitched this time. "Like coloring outside the lines on purpose?"

A surprised laugh bubbled up. "Like putting glitter in your helmet."

"You wouldn't." But his eyes crinkled at the corners, warmth breaking through the serious facade.

"Oh, I absolutely would." I grinned, feeling more like myself. "Fair warning—I have a craft store's worth of glitter and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Noted. Threat level: sparkly." He wrote something, then looked up. "So funishments for brattiness, not real punishments?"

The distinction made my chest tight with relief. He got it. Understood without me having to spell out how Cruz had used "punishment" as an excuse for cruelty.

"Yes. Important distinction." I leaned forward, needing him to understand. "Funishments can be playful. Writing lines about not putting glitter in tactical gear. Extra chores. Maybe a little sexy spanky time. Early bedtime without my stuffies—"

"Cruel and unusual," he interjected with mock seriousness.

"Right?" I smiled, then sobered. "But real punishments only for actual safety issues or hard limits. And never, ever when you're angry."

His pen stilled. "Totally," he agreed, writing it in capital letters. "Cool-down period required. We talk it through first, make sure we're both in the right headspace."

"Cruz used to . . ." I stopped, shaking my head. "No, we're not doing that. Not bringing him into this more than necessary."

"Sure, but your experiences matter," Tyson said gently. "They inform what you need now."

"He punished when he was angry." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "Said it was for my own good, but really he just liked hurting me when he was pissed. Called it discipline."

Tyson's knuckles went white around the pen. "That's abuse."

"I know. Now." I met his eyes steadily. "Took a while to understand the difference."

"We'll be clear about it," he promised. "Punishment is for learning, not for venting anger. Ever."

I nodded, throat thick. The morning sun had shifted, painting golden stripes across his face. He looked softer in this light, younger despite the weight he carried. It was easy to forget sometimes that he wasn't much older than me, that the war and trauma had aged him in ways that didn't show on his skin.