Page 3 of Milk For The Billionaire's Little

Running a nursing home wasn’t like working at a coffee shop or a retail store. If you waited too long for your latte, sure, it was annoying. But if residents here waited too long for their meds? That could spiral into a real problem—missed doses, unstable vitals, complications they didn’t deserve and we couldn’t afford. If someone didn’t get to the bathroom on time, it wasn’t just uncomfortable, but degrading. Every delay caused ripples. Every mistake had weight.

We had to meet ratios. Had to follow care plans to the letter. The state could come in at any time, unannounced, and if they found us understaffed or out of compliance, that was it. Citations, fines, or worse. My job wasn’t about selling a productor boosting quarterly numbers. My job was about keeping real, vulnerable people alive, safe, and treated with dignity.

And all of that got a hell of a lot harder when some of your staff bailed all at once.

Part of me feared I’d get a call tomorrow morning saying it was a stomach bug. That was what it was last time this happened. We sanitized religiously, but germs still found ways to sneak through. It wouldn’t be unheard of, and as much as I hated people being sick, apathy felt like the worse scenario in this case.

Whichever it was, I was finally home.

The first thing I did, before checking my phone, before taking off my shoes, was to head straight to the bathroom and start running the tub. I didn’t even wait to strip down. I just let the sound of the water fill the room while I moved through my tiny apartment, trying to shift from “in charge of everything” to just… me… soon to be Little me.

I needed Little time. Badly.

“Hey, Rosco.” I bent over the habitat in the corner of my bedroom. My hedgehog, all prickles and cuteness, peeked out from under his fleece tunnel. “Sorry I was gone so long. I hope you had a good day.”

Rosco had belonged to one of our residents. The plan was for them to stay short-term—just a month or two of rehab and then back home. But that didn’t happen. They declined. And once it was clear that they wouldn’t be leaving the nursing home again, we had to find a place for Rosco.

I couldn’t bring myself to send him to a shelter. And he wasn’t allowed to live on-site, no matter how clean or quiet he was. So… I brought him home. Now, he was mine.

And honestly? It was kind of nice.

He made me feel less alone.

“I’m gonna take a tubby,” I told him, “Then I’m gonna play. But I’ll be in the bedroom, so you’ll still hear me, okay?”

I made sure his water was topped off and his food dish full, then padded back into the bathroom. The tub was nearly full now. I tossed in a few of my bath toys, my rubber duckies, a wind-up turtle, a plastic boat with a crooked sail, and then threw my clothes into the hamper.

I climbed in and sank under the warm water with a long sigh.

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

I pushed the toys around, making up little games like I always did. I tried to get the ducks to balance on top of each other. It didn’t work. It never did, but it always made me laugh, so I considered it winning. I raced the turtle against the boat and pretended the loser had to sleep in the tub drain. It was silly and aimless andexactlywhat I needed.

Eventually, the water started to cool, but that was fine—I was already slipping into Little space by then. My shoulders were soft. My brain, quiet. No schedules, no emergencies, no impossible expectations. Just bubbles and ducks and the comfort of not having to be Big.

I got out, wrapped myself in a big towel, and dried off quickly. I pulled on my favorite cloth training pants—the ones with little trucks printed all around the waistband. They were snug andthick, hugging me with just the right pressure. I never used them, not even back when I had a Daddy, but they helped mefeelLittle. The texture, the fit, the soft rustle it made when I moved— perfection.

Next came my knee-high socks, my favorite ones all covered in koala bears, arms outstretched like they were ready for hugs. Absolutely adorable. I smiled just looking at them.

Then I slipped into my pajamas. Soft flannel, threadbare in spots, with yellow stars and pale blue clouds. The pants covered my socks almost entirely, but I didn’t mind.Iknew the koalas were there. That was what mattered.

I went to the kitchen and pulled out my bottle from the cupboard. Filled it with warm milk and gave it a good shake. It wasn’t human like I preferred, but this would do.

I belonged to a message board for Littles who liked the same thing as me, human milk. There was something about it that helped me stay Little longer. But it wassoexpensive. Always had been. There were a few folks on the board who sold theirs, and now there was even an app, like a cross between a lactation network and a dating site, designed to connect lactating Daddies and Littles looking for that specific care dynamic.

I’d scrolled through the app a few times. Some of the profiles were sweet. Some were overwhelming. All were expensive. I’d probably go back and look through them again after my next paycheck hit. I’d been working enough overtime lately. Maybe I could afford a little indulgence.

Would it be worth it?

On a day like today?

Definitely.

I carried my bottle into the bedroom, flopped down onto the bed, and grabbed my unicorn stuffy, Marigold, who’d been with me through four moves and two breakups. She still had a faint pink stain on her left ear from a juice box incident last summer when I thought a group playdate with a mommy might be fun. It was not. There were far too many Littles for any one caregiver, especially when four of them had been bratty. Lesson learned.

I pulled Marigold close, cuddled under my weighted blanket covered in boats, and turned on cartoons.

I sucked on my bottle and let the milk warm me from the inside out as the little green cat ran across the screen.

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