Page 33 of Wings
He led me down a hallway I hadn't explored, past the main rooms where club business happened, into what seemed like private quarters. The purple door stood out like a beacon among the standard whites and grays—soft lavender with silver hinges that caught the light.
Gabe stopped in front of it, suddenly hesitant. His free hand rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture I remembered from years ago when he was nervous about something.
"I've been modifying the space since you got here," he admitted, not meeting my eyes. "Some of the other Littles stayed here for a while, in this room, and so they used it as a nursery. I just . . . I wanted you to have somewhere that felt safe. Somewhere you could be yourself without worrying about anyone else."
He set his coffee on the hallway table, hand moving to the doorknob. "Didn't know if you'd want it, but after last night . . ."
The door swung open.
The world tilted off its axis.
Soft pink walls glowed in the morning light, warm and comforting as a hug. Fairy lights strung like constellation across the ceiling, casting everything in gentle sparkles. A bed—God, an actual princess bed with white gauze curtains tied back withsilk ribbons. The comforter was thick and fluffy, covered in tiny butterflies that looked hand-embroidered.
A bookshelf lined one wall, already filled with coloring books and picture books and stories I recognized from childhood. Goodnight Moon. The Velveteen Rabbit. Where the Wild Things Are. Books I'd loved and lost and mourned.
The toy chest painted with butterflies made my throat close. Inside, I could see the edge of stuffed animals, their soft fur calling to parts of me I'd buried. A low table perfect for coloring, with a caddy full of supplies—good colored pencils, a 64-pack of crayons—just like the set I'd been too scared to use, markers in every shade imaginable.
Plush carpet in the softest cream, thick enough to sink into. Perfect for sitting on while coloring or reading or just being small. A reading chair in the corner with a blanket draped over it—pale yellow with clouds, impossibly soft looking.
“So this was here already?”
“Most of it. But I’ve made some changes. The butterflies. The coloring stuff. I wanted it to feel like your space.”
Everything I'd dreamed. Everything I'd denied myself. Everything I'd been too terrified to want. Made real by hands that had loved me enough to see what I needed before I could ask.
My legs gave out.
His arms came around me without hesitation, pulling me against his chest. He held me, one hand stroking my hair while I sobbed years of want into his henley.
"Too much?" he asked, worry threading through his voice. "I can change things, take stuff out if it's—"
"No." The word came out fierce even through tears. "Perfect. It's too perfect and I don't—I can't—"
"Shh." He rocked me gently, the motion soothing something primal. "Just breathe for me, baby girl. We've got time."
The sobs eventually gentled to hiccups, then to shaky breaths. My face was probably a disaster, nose running and eyes swollen, but Gabe just pulled a soft tissue from his pocket and cleaned me up with the same care he'd shown organizing medical supplies. Patient. Thorough. Like I was worth the effort.
When I finally felt stable enough to lift my head, we were sitting on the plush carpet with me in his lap. Not sexual—just safe. His back rested against the princess bed, prosthetic stretched out carefully, and I fit against him like I'd been designed for this exact space.
"We need to talk about last night," he said gently, chin resting on top of my head. "About what you called me."
Shame tried to creep in, hot and familiar. I'd exposed too much, shown the desperate parts that sent people running. But before the spiral could catch, Gabe tipped my chin up with gentle fingers.
"Not bad, baby girl. Perfect. Exactly what I'd been hoping for since that first night on your couch." His eyes held mine, hazel gone dark with sincerity. "But we need to make sure we're on the same page. Need to talk about what this means for both of us."
"I don't really know the rules," I admitted. "I mean, I've read about it. DDLG dynamics and protocols and stuff. But I've never actually . . ."
"There's no one right way," he assured me. "Every dynamic is different. What matters is what works for us. So tell me—what does being Little mean to you?"
I traced patterns on his shirt, gathering courage. This was harder than crying, harder than calling him Daddy in the dark. This was explaining the unexplainable in daylight, in a room he'd built for exactly this purpose.
"It's not about pretending to be an actual child," I started carefully. "It's . . . a headspace? Where I feel small and safe and protected. Where I don't have to make all the decisions or beresponsible for everything. Where someone else is in charge and that's okay because they care about keeping me safe."
He made an encouraging sound, hand still stroking my hair.
"I first realized when I was nineteen," I continued, the words coming easier now. "Found this blog about DDLG dynamics. The writer talked about how being Little helped her anxiety, gave her permission to not be perfect all the time. I stayed up all night reading, crying because finally—finally—I had words for what I needed."
My voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I used to hide pacifiers in my jewelry box. Bought them at different stores so no one would notice. Told myself it was just stress relief, not weird, not sick. Then Alex found them during one of his paranoid searches. Said I was fucked up. Twisted. That no normal person would want someone who needed baby things to feel safe."
