Other Fetishes

"It should be in date, sweetheart, it might just be the chocolate. But keep drinking, I'll see you in a little bit for dinner, okay baby?" Jenny smiled and stroked his hair, like she used to do when he was little, before getting up and leaving the room, heading to her own bedroom to get the supplies ready.

Chapter Eighty-One: The stage lights made everything feel sharper than it was. She slipped. She fell on him. Not hard—no crack, no collision that would make everyone shout. Just weight and warmth and the sudden, brutal intimacy of someone landing where they never meant to land. There was a sound—small, wrong, unmistakable. A soft crinkle compressed beneath her palm. A give. Then a return. The padding settling back into place like it had been there all along because it had been. Paul’s entire nervous system lit up. His throat closed like someone had pulled a cord. Heat flooded his face, down his neck, under his shirt. The tracker buzzed again—harder this time—its light shifting in a warning he didn’t need. Orange. His big side surged forward like a shield snapping into place. Move. Get her off. Say something. Anything. Make a joke. Keep control. His little side rose beneath that, panicked and pleading, the way it always did when the world got too loud. Don’t move. Don’t make it worse. Stay still. Let it pass. Let her hold you. The argument hit instantly violent, fast, messy. Not words, exactly. More like two instincts tearing at the same rope. Paul could feel Amber adjust, instinctively shifting to protect his head and keep him from rolling. And that made everything worse. Because it wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t cruelty. It was care. She turned him gently, arms sliding under his shoulders, her forearm was warm against his cheek. The scent of her—makeup, shampoo, a familiar clean sweetness—hit him so hard it nearly stole the rest of his breath. The theater blurred at the edges. For a second, he was sixteen again. Thirteen again. A version of him who still believed he could outgrow anything if he just wanted it badly enough. Amber’s hand shifted, higher now, bracing his shoulder, but the damage was done. She knew. Paul knew she knew. He felt it in the pause—a fractional hesitation in her breathing, the smallest stall in her motion. The tracker pulsed again, almost angry. Orange, steady. He kept his eyes shut. If he opened them, he’d have to be seen. Inside him, the fight became a war. If she knows, everything changes. Everything. She’ll tell, tell her friends, tell his friends-She won’t. She loves us. She listens. She’s safe. That word—safe—hit like a bruise. His brain tried to summon safety like a spell, and instead it summoned Savannah. Not a whole memory—just flashes. A bathroom light. Warm towels. A gentle voice. Hands that didn’t flinch. That moment weeks ago when Paul had felt, for the first time in months, like his body didn’t make him unlovable. His chest tightened so sharply it almost turned into a sound. His walls cracked. Just for a second. Just enough for the thought to slip through—reckless and impossible. Tell her. Ask her. Maybe she could babysit. His adult side lunged like it had teeth. NO. That can’t happen. That line doesn’t get crossed. Not with her. Not ever. Paul’s fingers curled into the stage floor. His nails bit the wood. His whole body trembled with the effort of staying still. Amber’s face hovered close enough that he could feel her breath. And then she whispered—quiet, not for the room, not for Scout, not for Jem. For him. “Paul… why are you wearing diapers?” It was like someone had cracked open the ceiling and dropped all his worst imaginations at once: Amber’s eyes changing—pity, confusion, fear. Cast whispers spreading like oil across the hallways. A teacher’s “concerned” voice. Whitney’s annex door opening in front of a class. A future where everything private became public and everything tender became a joke. His throat tried to form a reply and failed. The tracker buzzed again, frantic—orange pushing toward red. Paul’s mouth opened. A sound almost came out. Almost. His walls—those carefully built walls of sarcasm and competence and stage bravery—began to collapse. He could feel it happening, like an internal dam cracking under pressure. He was so close to telling her. Not everything. Not the whole story. Just enough to make the room stop spinning. Just enough to make her understand he wasn’t doing this to be weird, or lazy, or childish. Just enough to make her keep holding him the way she was holding him. And then— Declan’s voice cut through the moment like a director’s blade. “Alright, alright—break! Reset, reset! Don’t just stand there gawkin’ like it’s opening night!” Julia’s voice followed, brisk and practical, the adult in the room even when they were all pretending to be adults. “Everyone off the stage for five. Water. Breathe. We’ll run it again.” The world exhaled. People shifted. Shoes scuffed. Someone laughed nervously like they didn’t know what to do with what they’d just witnessed. Amber didn’t let go immediately. Neither did Paul. It was the tiniest rebellion—one extra heartbeat of stillness before reality returned. Paul’s mouth closed again. The moment to speak vanished, like a door swung shut by someone else’s hand. And that’s when the clapping started. Slow. Casual. Too loud in the hush after Declan’s call. Marcus. He sauntered down the aisle like the theater belonged to him—even though he barely ever showed up unless Amber was involved. He had that easy confidence Paul didn’t hate exactly, but resented in the way a starving person resents someone eating without thinking. Marcus was everything Paul wasn’t outside the stage. Effortless. Popular. Loud without consequence. He grinned as he reached the edge of the stage. “Well damn,” Marcus said, voice amused. “Didn’t know rehearsal was that kind of intense.” Amber looked up, surprise blooming into something softer. “Marcus—” He stepped closer, genuinely happy to see her, and the grin widened like he’d walked into his favorite scene. And then he kissed her. Not politely. Not shy. Confident, familiar, like the world was a room meant for them.   Paul was still cradled in Amber’s arms. Still on the floor. Still struggling to breathe. The humiliation hit so hot and sudden it almost made him sick.   He felt smaller than his costume. Smaller than his body. Smaller than the person he’d been an hour ago. Marcus finally glanced down. “Hey, Squirt,” he said, like it was an old nickname he enjoyed too much. “You alive?” Paul’s face burned. The tracker buzzed—angry, startled—then steadied, hovering in that panicked zone where he could still pretend, he was fine if no one looked too closely. Marcus’s gaze flicked over him—quick, sharp, assessing in a way Marcus would never admit he did. A glance at Paul’s posture. At the bulk he couldn’t quite hide. At the way Amber’s arm was still supporting him like he was breakable. Paul’s stomach dropped. Marcus’s expression barely shifted. If he noticed anything, he didn’t give it the dignity of naming it. He just chuckled. “Gotta admit,” Marcus said, nodding toward the stage like he was doing Paul a favor, “you’ve got talent. Didn’t know you had that kind of range.” It should’ve been a compliment. It felt like a pat on the head. Marcus reached down with one hand and yanked Paul up with more force than care, hauling him out of Amber’s arms like he was a prop in the way. Paul staggered, feet finding the floor again. The bulk and rustle he tried not to think about became suddenly louder in his own ears. Marcus shoved him—playful, a jerk’s version of friendly. “There you go,” Marcus said, grin easy. “Don’t die before opening night, yeah?” Amber’s mouth tightened. She didn’t snap, but the annoyance flashed in her eyes—brief, real. “Marcus—” she started. But Marcus was already leaning in again, stealing another kiss, this time more private, as if they’d forgotten the room existed. Paul stood there for one stunned beat, watching them. And in that beat, his mind did something cruel. It placed him where Marcus was. It showed him the future he’d always half-imagined in some quiet corner of his heart: Amber beside him, laughing, choosing him, the two of them older and sure and safe. And then it shattered it like glass. Because Paul wasn’t in Marcus’s place. He was on the outside of the picture, looking in, wearing proof of how far his life had veered from normal. Julia’s voice called from the aisle. “Paul—can you come here a second? I need to talk to you about costume—” He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. If he spoke, he might tell the truth. If he spoke, he might cry. If he spoke, Amber might look at him with that new knowledge in her eyes. Paul backed away. One step. Then another. Off the stage. Toward the exit. His feet moved like they belonged to someone else, his body half in shock, half in pure survival. He reached the door. Pushed it open. And the weather outside hit him like a decision. Late autumn rain—sheets of it, thick and relentless, wind driving it sideways. No thunder. No lightning. Just a cold, punishing downpour that made the world feel washed out and sharp. Paul stopped on the threshold. For one second, he didn’t move. His tracker buzzed again—orange, hot—like it was begging him to choose. Man up. Stay. Turn around. Tell Amber. Or run. Leave. Disappear into the rain. He looked back over his shoulder. And there, framed by stage light, he saw Amber and Marcus together—close, laughing at something only they knew. Marcus’s hand at her waist. Amber’s head tilted toward him. For a moment, Paul’s brain tried to stitch himself into that picture again. Tried to pretend he still belonged. Then reality pulled it apart. Julia’s voice floated again from inside. “Paul? Hey—where’d you go? I need you for a quick costume note!” Paul swallowed. He turned back toward the storm. And he walked out into it. Rain hit his face immediately—cold, heavy, soaking his hair, plastering his clothes. The wind shoved at him like it wanted him gone. The door swung behind him with a hard, hollow sound that carried back into the theater like a warning. Inside—Julia stepped toward the stage, scanning for him. Amber had pulled away from Marcus, attention snapping back into place, her face tightening with something she didn’t have a name for yet. Julia approached her instead, voice practical, unaware of the earthquake under Amber’s skin. “Amber—where is Paul? I need to speak with him about costume design. Jem’s jacket—there’s a pin issue.” Amber stared at the exit door. The howl of wind outside threaded faintly through the building. Rain hammered the glass in hard bursts. A cold, unwanted understanding settled in her chest. Paul had left. And he had left like someone fleeing a fire. Amber’s thoughts tumbled—fast, overlapping, urgent. He didn’t answer me. He couldn’t. What changed?  I thought it was nothing. I thought I knew him. Her hand lifted slightly, almost unconsciously, fingers curling as if she could still feel the impossible squish and crinkle beneath her palm. She didn’t look at Marcus. She didn’t look at Julia. Her focus tunneled on the door like it was the only honest thing in the room. Because now the question wasn’t just why. It was how long. And whether Paul had been drowning quietly while she’d been busy building an adult life she thought he was walking toward too. Amber swallowed hard. “I—” she started, voice catching. Then she forced herself to breathe. “I don’t know,” she said, but the words didn’t sound true even to her. “He was just—he was right here.” Julia’s brow furrowed. Marcus, behind Amber, laughed softly like the storm was nothing. Amber didn’t hear him. All she could hear was the wind.And underneath that— The sound of the exit door slamming.     Just as Amber was discovering Paul’s secret, Lilly was about to uncover another. The Goldhawk kitchen had always been beautiful in the way expensive things were beautiful—polished stone, perfect lines, appliances that hummed like quiet luxury. But on mornings like this, it stopped being a showroom and became a living room with fire in its veins. Martina made it that way. She moved through the space in her chef mode—hair secured, sleeves pushed, posture upright with the calm authority of someone who’d spent years learning how to feed people when life was messy. The cutting board sat centered like an altar. A knife flashed with clean confidence, not hurried, not hesitant, just sure. Cilantro met the blade in quick, rhythmic chops, the herb scent bursting into the air like a green exhale. On the stovetop, a pan warmed slowly, oil shimmering at the edges the way a lake does before it boils. Martina didn’t just cook. She conducted. She nudged a pot handle into alignment without looking. She tasted with the tip of a spoon, then adjusted with two pinches of salt like she was correcting a note in music. She was already building layers—acid, heat, smoke, sweetness—like she knew exactly where she wanted the meal to land in a person’s chest. Her face said everything was under control. Her mind didn’t. Because even as she worked, her worry threaded itself through every motion. Amber. Martina could still see the ring’s flash when Amber had waved her hand the other night—so bright, so excited, so sure. Martina had smiled. She had meant it, too. Amber deserved joy. But Martina also had memory, and memory did not clap politely. She remembered being seventeen and thinking love could fix anything if you held it tight enough. She remembered her and José running away, the world feeling electric and brave and theirs. She remembered the way the first year felt like a movie. Then the bills came. Then Amber came. Then the exhaustion. By twenty-two, José was gone. Martina’s hands never stopped moving, but her chest tightened anyway as she flipped a piece of marinated meat onto the built-in grill in the center of the island. It sizzled immediately, the sound loud and alive. Smoke curled upward, carrying cumin, garlic, citrus, something deeper—something old-world. She pushed the thought away, the way you push steam away from your face. Amber is not me, she told herself. Amber has people. Amber has— Marcus. And that was another thread she didn’t like touching. Not because Marcus was bad. Because he was charming. Because charm could be a fast train. Because young people sometimes mistook speed for certainty. Martina’s fingers tightened around the tongs for half a second. Then she exhaled and softened her grip. You can worry later, she told herself. Right now, feed the house. Right now, be useful. Right now, do what you can do. And what Martina could do—what she’d always been able to do—was make food that made people feel held. Today, it was an old world dish with a modern twist: ropa vieja, the kind her family had made for generations, but she was turning it into something lighter, brighter, built for a Florida afternoon. The shredded beef had been slow-cooked until it fell apart with barely a touch, then tossed with grilled peppers and onions kissed by the flame, finished with a citrusy chimichurri that leaned Cuban-Spanish in spirit but modern in attitude. She was plating it not over heavy rice, but into warm, small tortillas—tacos, technically—topped with pickled red onions and a whisper of crema with lime zest.   Upstairs, in the home studio that had become Lilly’s second heart, the air smelled like ring light heat and fresh paint and ambition. Lilly sat in front of her camera with her spine straight and her smile practiced—not fake, just chosen. The background was curated: soft lighting, neutral tones, a shelf with books stacked like intention. She’d changed her shirt twice before committing to the one she wore now. Not because she was vain. Because she was trying to control something. Bryan was going back to Tokyo, and the countdown lived in every corner of the house like a ticking clock.Paul’s needs were no longer theoretical. They were daily. They were real. They were escalating in ways Lilly had anticipated in concept but not in her body. Then her SMG launch—her new channel, her new project, her new proof-of-life—was supposed to be about purpose and brightness and meaning… but lately her purpose had felt like triage. She pressed record. The red dot appeared. And Lilly started to narrate the purpose of the channel, her voice smooth at first, then slowly warming as the words turned into something closer to truth. “Hi. Its SMG here” she said, and the name felt like a doorway. “And this is Step Mommy Gudiance—because sometimes the life you planned isn’t the life you get. Sometimes you wake up and your world is different. Sometimes it’s louder. Sometimes it’s quieter. Sometimes it’s… harder.” She paused, the smallest hitch, then continued—choosing honesty in a way she rarely allowed herself to on-camera. “This channel is about understanding. About protecting what matters. About learning how to live with as much happiness as you can, even when the shape of your day’s changes. It’s about… support systems. And rebuilding. And the kind of love that isn’t just words—it’s logistics. It’s showing up. It’s staying.” The last word came out softer than she intended. Staying. She held her smile. She kept her eyes steady. She finished the take like a professional. Then she cut recording, exhaled, and let her shoulders drop. For a moment, she just sat there in the quiet hum of her equipment, feeling the weight of the house like gravity. Bryan to Tokyo. Harley. The sitter test run still lingering in her head, too competent to dismiss, too strange to fully trust. Paul’s return to school today. The fragile line between “normal life” and “everything could break.” Then the smell hit her. Not subtle. Not faint. Heavily coming from the kitchen, like a hand reaching up the staircase. Smoke and citrus. Garlic and warm tortillas. Something caramelized. Something alive. Lilly’s hunger—real hunger, not stress hunger—flared with surprise. Curiosity followed right behind it, the way it always did when something in her home felt unfamiliar in a good way. She stood, paddled downstairs, and followed the scent like it had a string tied to her ribs. The kitchen looked different. Not because the counters had moved or the lights were brighter. Because Martina was in it like she belonged to it. Because the room had rhythm now. Heat. Sound. A Carlos Santana song played softly from Martina’s phone, and Martina was singing along under her breath—only half the words, but all the feeling. Her hips swayed in small, unconscious movements as she worked the grill, turning the meat at the exact moment the edges charred just enough. Her confidence wasn’t loud. It was inevitable. Lilly hovered at the entry for one second, watching with a kind of wonder that surprised her. Martina’s movements were efficient but warm. Like a person who had learned to turn care into a craft. Martina looked up. Saw Lilly. Startled so hard she laughed, a hand to her chest, Spanish spilling out like an instinct. “¡Ay, Dios mío! Lilly—” She shook her head, smiling, half scolding. “No hagas eso. You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.” Lilly laughed too, the sound more genuine than she’d heard from herself all morning. “I wasn’t trying to. I just—” She inhaled again like she needed to prove it. “What are you making? Because whatever it is… it’s unfair.” Martina’s face softened into pride, the kind that came from roots, not ego. “Ropa vieja,” she said, then held up a finger like a warning. “But I’m doing it my way. Little twist. Not too heavy. Not too traditional. But the soul is there.” Lilly drifted closer. “The soul is definitely there.” Martina gestured to the island like she was inviting Lilly into a world that had raised her. “My abuela used to make it when someone was sick. Or sad. Or just… when the house needed to remember it was a house.” Lilly didn’t say anything for a beat, because the words landed too close to her own life. Instead, she reached for two wine glasses from the cabinet—clean, chilled—and poured a chilled white wine she’d been saving for a “better time” that never seemed to arrive. “Well,” Lilly said, handing one to Martina, “if we’re bringing souls back into the house, we might as well do it properly.” Martina’s eyes widened in amused approval. “Now you’re speaking my language.” They spent the next thirty minutes doing something Lilly didn’t realize she’d been starving for: just being women in a kitchen. Not step-mother and family friend. Not boss and employee. Not caretaker and caretaker. Just… two people sharing the space between them. Martina talked about dishes like they were stories—about her family roots steeped in the kitchen, how flavors were memory, how you could tell where someone came from by how they seasoned their rice. Lilly admitted, laughing, that she had grown up with food being more “fuel” than heritage, and Martina didn’t make her feel lesser for it. She just nodded, like she understood a whole life in that one sentence. Martina plated a small portion for Lilly—tortilla warmed, beef layered, onions bright, sauce drizzled like a finishing ribbon. “Okay,” Martina said, watching her like a judge. “Taste.” Lilly took a bite. And her entire face changed. Her eyes widened, then softened. Her shoulders dropped again like her body recognized safety. It wasn’t just delicious—it was alive. Acid and smoke and salt and a sweetness that didn’t feel like sugar, it felt like time. “Oh my God,” Lilly breathed, then immediately laughed at herself. “Martina. This is—” She took another bite, slower. “This is ridiculous.” Martina grinned, satisfied. “Good ridiculous or bad ridiculous?” “The best kind.” Lilly pointed her fork like she was making a vow. “This is the best thing I’ve tasted in—” Bryan walked in looking drained in that specific way men looked after carrying invisible stress for too long. His phone was still in his hand, his eyes a little distant like Tokyo had been speaking through him all morning even from across the ocean. He barely had time to take his shoes off before Lilly was on him, laughing, animated, the way she got when she needed him to feel something good. She shoved a forkful into his mouth. “Eat,” she ordered, half joking, half desperate. “Just—eat.” Bryan blinked, startled, then chewed. His face changed the way it did when Christmas morning hit as a kid. Immediate. Unfiltered. Like his whole system had been waiting for joy and didn’t care what form it came in. He swallowed. Looked at Martina like she’d performed a miracle. “This is the BEST thing I’ve tasted,” he declared, eyes wide, sincerity loud enough to fill the room. Lilly elbowed him playfully in the gut, hard enough to make him cough and laugh mid-sentence. “Excuse you,” she said, mock offended. “The best thing right next to—go ahead. Say it.” Bryan grinned, rubbing his side. He looked at Lilly with that familiar tease that still lived between them despite everything. “Umm Lilly honey,” he said, performing innocence like it was a sport, “remind me what dish of yours do I love more than life itself?” Martina laughed, the sound bright and real. Lilly rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile. “Good answer,” Lilly said, leaning in to kiss him quick, soft. “Now eat before I change my mind.” All three adults shared that moment together—one of those rare, simple scenes that didn’t feel like crisis management. Martina watched them with something tender in her expression, and Lilly caught it for half a second and felt a warmth she hadn’t expected: gratitude. Bryan glanced between them, then said, casual like it was nothing, “You know what I’m thinking?” Lilly raised a brow. “That scares me.” “A picnic lunch,” Bryan said, smiling. “Today. Just… get out for a bit. Clear our heads.” Martina immediately encouraged it, nodding like the idea made perfect sense. “Yes. Go. I’ll pack you something. And I have—” she gestured to another container already prepped, “—tortilla española I was making for the week. You can take that too.” Bryan’s smile grew. “Perfect.” He turned to Lilly. “There’s a lookout point I love. Hanna Park. They have a spot where you can see the water and the trees remember how to be quiet.” Lilly considered it. The idea of leaving the house usually felt impossible now. But Bryan’s face—hopeful, softer than he’d been in weeks—made her want to say yes. “Okay,” Lilly said, surprising herself with how quickly it came out. “Yes. We’ll go.” Martina waved her hand like she was dismissing their guilt before it could form. “I’ll stay until Paul gets home.” Bryan nodded. “We’ll be back before 3 p.m.” He started gathering things immediately—like he needed movement to hold onto the lightness. He pulled out a cooler bag. Plates. Napkins. The kind of quiet preparations that made a day feel normal. And that’s when Lilly pulled Martina aside. Not dramatically. Just a step closer near the pantry, voice lowered like it was a secret she didn’t want the house to overhear. “Hey,” Lilly said softly. “Next week… could you meet with me and Hillary?” Martina blinked. “Hillary?” Lilly nodded, eyes bright with a different kind of excitement—one that wasn’t about crisis, but possibility. “I want to introduce you,” Lilly said. “Because… Martina, you have a true talent. Like—real. And I would love to help you maybe launch a test online cooking show. Just to see. No pressure. But… I think people would love you.” Martina’s breath caught. For a split second, her mask slipped. The worry about money. The worry about saving for her own future. The looming weight of helping pay for a wedding that wasn’t hers but still felt like her responsibility. All of it quieted under the sudden, unexpected idea that something could grow from her hands that wasn’t just survival. Her eyes glistened, but she blinked it back quickly, smiling.Internally, something inside her lifted—small, fragile, real. Out loud, she kept her voice steady. “I would like that very much,” Martina said. And Lilly—who had spent so long being guarded, controlling, careful—felt something shift between them. Not friendship fully formed yet. But the foundation of it. A beginning. Behind them, Bryan zipped the cooler bag, humming under his breath like the house might actually let them have one good afternoon. And Martina turned back to the stove, smiling to herself as the grill hissed and the kitchen came alive again—this time with something new under the flavor. Hope.   The sound of rain hardening the world around a boy who no longer knew where to stand inside it. The drops pricked his skin—sharp, insistent, cold enough to register—but they didn’t hurt. They focused. Each one landed like a pin tapping a map, reminding him where his body still was even as his mind unraveled. His hoodie darkened immediately, fabric drinking in the storm. His jeans followed, heavy and clinging, the seams dark with water. His shoes filled fast, each step making a sickening, sodden sound he refused to think about. He kept walking. Because stopping meant feeling. And feeling meant breaking. Amber. The stage. Marcus. The word diapers whispered into him like a knife wrapped in velvet. Paul’s breath caught, then reset, then caught again. His shoulders hunched instinctively, as if he could make himself smaller. The rain soaked him through to the layer’s underneath—through fabric, through softness, through the carefully constructed armor he’d chosen that morning. The padding beneath it all grew heavier, denser, swollen with a humiliation he could feel but could not fix. Each step made the weight shift, tugging him downward, a physical reminder that there was no running away from his body—no matter how fast he moved. The tracker on his wrist had long since given up its polite warnings. It burned red now, pulsing like a second heart screaming danger. His breath came shallow. Not a panic attack—those were sharp, electric, explosive. This was worse. This was the slow, suffocating pressure of cement setting around his ribs. This is it, his mind told him with terrible calm. This is the rest of it. This is who you are now. Buried alive in softness. The padding—meant to protect him—felt like a grave made of cotton and plastic. Every scream he wanted to release dissolved into it, absorbed, muffled, silenced. The world wouldn’t even hear him drown.   In the kitchen, Martina was wiping down the countertops, her movements slow now, thoughtful. The storm had swallowed the backyard completely. Rain sheeted down so thick she couldn’t even see the canal anymore—just a blur of gray swallowing the world beyond the glass. She paused, cloth in hand, watching the way the sky seemed to press closer, heavier, like it wanted inside. She thought of Amber. Of rings and promises and futures that felt so certain at seventeen—and how quickly certainty could turn to consequence. She glanced down for only a moment. Then she heard the back door unlock. The sound didn’t belong. When Martina looked up, Paul was standing there. Drenched didn’t begin to cover it. Water streamed from his hair, his bangs plastered across his forehead and eyes like a curtain he hadn’t chosen. His hoodie clung to his shoulders, darkened and sagging, the sleeves dripping steadily onto the tile. His jeans were soaked straight through, heavy and stiff, sticking to his legs like wet paper. Rain pooled at his feet, running from the cuffs of his pants, leaving a trail across the kitchen floor. And his face—His face was wrong. Not crying. Not angry. Just… twisted. Like embarrassment, exhaustion, and loss had all pulled him in different directions at once and left him there. Martina’s chest tightened. “Dios mío…” she whispered before she even realized she was speaking. She crossed the room in three quick steps, Spanish spilling from her before she could stop it—instinct, care, panic all braided together. “Paul? ¿Qué haces aquí, mi niño? You should be in school, no? The play? Did you walk? You’re soaked—come here, corazón, let me help you.” Her voice was full of hope. Of help. Of the belief that this was still fixable. Paul didn’t look at her. Didn’t answer. He bent down mechanically, unlaced his shoes with numb fingers, and left them in a wet heap by the door. His hands shook—not violently, just enough that Martina noticed. Then he walked past her—straight past—his shoulders rounded inward, his body language screaming retreat. Martina saw it immediately. The way he held himself tighter. The way his gait had changed. The extra care in each step. The subtle waddle he hadn’t needed before. Her eyes dropped—just for a second—and she saw it. The shape beneath his clothes. Her heart clenched. Paul reached the fridge, opened it, grabbed a bottle of vitamin water and an energy bar with shaking hands. His stomach growled loud enough that Martina heard it over the rain. His throat burned—dry despite swallowing half the storm on the way home. He twisted the cap off the bottle, took three long gulps without breathing, some of it trickled down his chin adding to the wet he was already soaked in. He capped it again and tucked it under his arm like a lifeline. He turned toward the stairs. Martina stepped into his path. This time, she took his hand—firmer now, grounded—and switched to English. “No. Paul. Come sit,” she said, steady but urgent. “I’ll help you out of those wet clothes. We’ll get you dry, a fresh diaper, some pajamas. And then we talk.” The word landed wrong. Paul snapped. The eruption came so fast it surprised them both. He shook his arm free, his voice tearing out of him like it had been waiting for permission. “SHE FUCKING KNOWS. SHE KNOWS.” The words echoed off the tile, sharp and ugly and loud. Martina flinched. “What—Paul, slow down,” she tried, stepping closer. “Who knows?” He turned toward the servants’ staircase, desperation flooding his face. His eyes were glassy now, wild, like a trapped animal scanning for exits. “I just want to be alone,” he choked. “Please—just let me go.” Martina reacted on instinct. She grabbed his right arm again—this time tighter, still careful—and tried to pull him into her chest. Through the soaked fabric of his hoodie she could feel the tracker against his wrist, blazing hot, screaming red. “Paul—no, mi amor—look at me,” she pleaded. “You’re not thinking straight.” He was past hugs. Past comfort. Past reason. He thrashed against her grip, pain and fury boiling over, and the next words came out sharp, ugly, raw—Spanish slipping free before he could stop it. “¡Quítate de mí, perra! AMBER SABE.” (Get off me, bitch. Amber knows.) The sentence hit Martina like a slap. Not the insult. The name. Amber. Her hand loosened. Her breath caught. That single admission—Amber knows—cracked something open in her chest. The implications rushed in all at once, ugly and fast. Paul took the opening and bolted, water flinging from his clothes as he ran up the stairs behind the pantry. “Paul!” Martina called, shock snapping into command. “Paul, stop!” The bedroom door slammed. Locked. The sound reverberated through the hall Martina reached it in seconds and knocked—hard enough to be heard, not hard enough to break. “Paul. Paul, you have to let me in,” she said, her voice tight now, urgency threading through her restraint. “Let me help you. Let me talk with you.” Nothing. Then— Breathing. Deep. Then shallow. Then deep again. A sob slipped through the door, broken and furious. “LEAVE ME ALONE,” Paul shouted, voice cracking. “LEAVE ME ALONE. I’M SORRY—I JUST WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE.” Martina closed her eyes. She knew that sound. She stepped back from the door, giving him the space she could feel he needed, and when she spoke again her voice was gentler—but still firm enough to hold the moment. “Paul… I know this isn’t you,” she said softly. “And I respect your space. So I’m going to stop right now. But please, mi cielo—get out of those wet clothes before you catch cold. Take a warm shower. I’ll be right outside, sitting in the mecedora. I’m not going anywhere. Not until you’re ready. Not until your parents come home.” She waited. Paul didn’t answer. But a moment later, she heard it—the rush of water, the shower turning on. Martina exhaled slowly, relief spreading through her chest like warmth returning to frozen hands. She eased herself into the rocking chair outside his room, the wood creaking softly beneath her weight. The storm still battered the house like it had something to prove. Her mind snapped back to the words that mattered. Amber knows. Her heart began to race. She pulled out her phone and typed quickly, Spanish chosen instinctively, privately. Amber, Mi amor—Paul came home very upset. He said you know about him wearing diapers. What happened? The reply came faster than she expected. Entonces es verdad, Mamá… what is going on? Martina stared at the screen, fingers hovering. And somewhere—between her daughter, this boy, and a truth that was no longer contained—Martina realized something else entirely was beginning. Not just a crisis. A reckoning.

Small clarification: The story is slightly out of synch, I was hoping to coincide Sally’s Christmas now, but tomorrow shows Thanksgiving. Christmas will be up soon.  Thanks for enjoyig! Merry Christmas to all!

"Thanks mom, I'm sorry its just like Tommy is stinky a lot and I just didnt want that in my room... You know?" Fred asked as he took a sip of the hot chocolate. He made a small face when he did because it tasted a little strange. "Uhh mom is the cream expired?" He asked as he pulled it away from his mouth but at that point it was enough to start the process. 

Now in a Crinklz (buccaneer)