Page 40 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

“Never.”

“So…what you’ve been doing…this edging thing. Denying me. It’s part of this?”

“Yes.”

Aaron nodded once, then hesitated. Testing the shape of it in his mind. “Right.”

The pause between them felt heavy in a good way. Settled. Kenny didn’t fill it. He let Aaron sit with it. Trust it.

Then, gently, Kenny asked, “Do you want me to stop?”

Aaron thought about it.

He should probably say yes. Would be easier. Less confusing. Lessexposing. He’d spent the last few days trying to push Kenny into giving in—sex, release, something—to regain the upper hand. But then he thought of the bath. Themessages. The praise. Kenny’s hands. Kenny’s voice. How his body still buzzed at the memory. There was no way he could pretend he didn’t ache to be cared for and looked after in the way only Kenny knew how.

So he looked him in the eye. “No. I’m oddly curious where it goes.”

Kenny smiled. “I promise you it’ll be worth it.” He nudged his chin towards the building. “Now go be useful.”

“You don’t know my work ethic.”

“Oh,” Kenny started the engine, “I think I do.”

Aaron shook his head but couldn’t hide the way his mouth curved. Chaos leapt out after Aaron with a yelp of excitement, slipping on the frost-crusted gravel towards the entrance to Shanklin Residential Home. But before he could stagger in, Kenny wound down the window, leaning over the seats to shove an envelope at him.

“Don’t forget to hand these in when you get to work.”

Aaron narrowed his eyes. Then snatched the envelope containing those bloody forms.

“See you at four.”

Aaron nodded then watched as Kenny drove off.

“Fuck,” he muttered into the fog.

Grinch.

Jesus.

He’d agreed to a safeword.

Afuckingsafeword. Before breakfast.

And the worst part? He hadn’t even realised he wanted one. Not the actual word, but theideaof it. The whole setup. The blanket. The gingerbread. The invisible pause button he hadn’t known he’d been crawling through life without. It was an option to tap out. Not be on edge every second of the day. And to stop performing toughness as if his life depended on it.

It gave him this weird, quiet sense of power. Not the loud, sharp kind he usually had to claw for. Not teeth-bared, fuck-off,touch-me-and-dieenergy. But that he got to decide. What happens next. What he’s okay with.

That shitmattered.

Because he’d never had that given to him before. People either wanted his compliance or his chaos. Not his choice.

He adjusted his scarf and huffed out a breath, shaking the thoughts off like water.

Keep it moving. Stay loose. Stay flippant.

Go to fucking work.

chapter eight