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I bit my lip, fighting a grin at his discomfort. Here was a man who'd faced down armed enemies, who'd literally choked someone for threatening me hours ago, and he was blushing about sex talk.

"Intimate activities? Are we talking about sex, Soldier Boy?" I couldn't resist the tease, though my own hands shook slightly where they rested against his chest. "Because you should know I have a praise kink a mile wide and your voice does things to me."

The pen slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the table. "Lena."

"What? We're being honest, right?" I shifted in his lap, noting with satisfaction the way his hands tightened on my waist. "When you called me your good girl just now? I felt that everywhere."

His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "You can't just—"

"Say true things? Sure I can." But then I sobered, needing him to understand the important part. "But also . . . little space isn't sexual for me. When I'm really little, I just need cuddles and care. Soft touches, not sexy ones."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "Separate dynamics."

"Exactly." I played with the collar of his shirt, needing something to do with my hands. "When I'm little, I want bedtime stories and forehead kisses and maybe help washing my hair. Intimate but not . . . you know."

"I know." He retrieved his pen, making careful notes. "Separate dynamics, separate needs. Intimate care in littlespace, no sexual component. And what about when you're not little?"

Heat flooded through me at the rough edge to his voice. "Then I want you to wreck me."

His hand stilled against my cheek. "Lena—"

"But with care," I rushed to add. "Does that make sense? I want intensity and passion and maybe some power play, but all of it grounded in caring. In safety."

"Perfect sense." His thumb traced my cheekbone, and I leaned into the touch. "Care doesn't mean gentle. It means considered. Damn, I love how you know what you want."

My heart raced when I heard him use the word “love”.

"Sometimes I might want gentle. Sometimes I might want you to pin me against a wall. But always, always I want to know it comes from a place of—"

"Care," he finished quietly. “Connection. Not anger or punishment."

"What about you?" I asked, needing to deflect from the intensity. "What do you need?"

He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "Control."

I waited, knowing there was more.

"Not of you," he clarified quickly. "Of the situation. Of myself. Knowing I can keep you safe, make you feel good, provide what you need. Having protocols to follow so I don't . . ." He stopped, staring at something I couldn't see.

"So you don't what?"

"Fail." The word came out raw. "So I don't fail you like I failed them."

My heart clenched.

"Tyson—"

"I need structure too," he continued, pushing through. "Clear protocols, regular check-ins, defined expectations. Not because Iwant to control you, but because I need to know I'm doing right by you. That I'm not missing signs or misreading situations or—"

"Breathe," I said softly, pressing my palm to his chest. His heart hammered under my touch. "Just breathe for a second."

He did, eyes closing as he pulled in air. I stayed quiet, letting him find his center. This was big—him trusting me with his needs, his fears.

"I’m fine with check-ins. As often as you need." I squeezed his hand. "We'll talk about what's working, what isn't, what needs to change."

"And you'll be honest?" His eyes searched mine. "Even if something makes you uncomfortable? Even if you think it'll upset me?"

"Especially then," I promised. "If something feels wrong, I'll say so."