Page 38 of Wings
"Second—three meals a day. Real meals, not coffee and whatever crackers you find. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. I'll help, make sure there's always something available, but you have to eat."
"I forget sometimes," she admitted quietly. "When I'm busy or stressed, I just . . . don't notice I'm hungry."
"Which is why you need someone noticing for you." I reached across, taking her free hand. "That's my job now. Making sure my baby girl is healthy and strong."
The third rule was the hardest. The most important.
"Last one—honesty. Always. About everything, but especially about how you're feeling." I squeezed her hand gently. "No more 'I'm fine' when you're drowning. No more pretending you don't need things. If you're scared, you tell me. If you're sad, you tell me. If you're slipping into little space and need your Daddy, you tell me."
Tears had gathered in her eyes. "What if I mess up? What if I can't—"
"Then we deal with it together," I cut in firmly. "These aren't tests you can fail, Ki. They're guardrails. Ways to keep you safe while you learn to trust that you deserve care."
She was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then, so soft I almost missed it: "What happens if I break a rule?"
"Depends on why and how. If you're struggling, we talk about it. Find out what's making it hard and adjust." I paused, making sure she was really hearing me. "But if you're being careless with yourself, if you're not eating because you 'don't deserve it' or staying up because you're punishing yourself... then yeah, there'll be consequences."
"Like what?"
"Corner time. Spanking. Writing lines. Loss of privileges." I watched her carefully for signs of panic, but she just looked . . . interested. "Nothing that would actually hurt you, baby girl. Just reminders that your wellbeing isn't negotiable."
She chewed her bottom lip, that tell that meant she was working up to saying something important. I waited, patient.
"I want to be good," she finally whispered. "Want to follow your rules and make you proud. But I'm not . . . I've been taking care of myself badly for so long. What if it's too hard to change?"
I stood, pulling her up and into my arms. She melted against me immediately, face pressed to my chest.
"Change is hard," I agreed, stroking her back. "But you're not doing it alone anymore. I'll remind you about meals. I'll help you wind down for bed. I'll create space for you to be honest. All you have to do is try."
She nodded against my shirt, arms tightening around me. We stood there in the quiet kitchen, coffee cooling on the table, while she absorbed this new reality. Structure. Safety. Someone giving enough of a damn to set boundaries.
"Thank you, Daddy," she mumbled, and I felt the words in my chest like a physical thing.
"Always, baby girl. Always."
Three days was all it took to see the change. Like watching a time-lapse of a flower blooming—so gradual you'd miss it if you weren't paying attention, but I was always paying attention to Ki.
Monday morning, she'd laughed at something Mia said over breakfast. Not the polite chuckle she'd been offering since arriving, but a real laugh that crinkled her eyes and made her cover her mouth like she was surprised by the sound. Mia had been describing her attempts to teach Duke how to braid hair, complete with hand gestures and increasingly ridiculous voices. Ki's joy hit me like a physical thing, warming places that had been cold since the desert.
Tuesday, I'd found her at the kitchen table with Mandy, medical supplies spread between them like they were planning an invasion. But Ki had been doodling in the margins of the inventory sheets—tiny butterflies and stars and hearts that crept across the pages like joy made visible. Her shoulders were loose, posture open. When she'd caught me watching, she'd blushed but didn't stop drawing.
"Mandy says the doodles help her remember which supplies go where," she'd explained, shy but not ashamed.
Wednesday brought the biggest change. She'd worn one of the soft sweaters from the nursery—lavender with clouds across the front—to breakfast. Such a small thing, choosing comfort over camouflage, but it meant everything. Thor had complimented it, gruff but sincere, and she'd beamed like he'd handed her the moon.
Now it was Thursday evening, and I watched her help Cleo organize toys in the common room. They sat cross-legged on the floor, heads bent together, sorting by some system only they understood. Ki's hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the light. She'd stopped pulling it back so tight, stopped armoring herself in severe ponytails and rigid control.
"The blue cars have to go here," Cleo explained earnestly, "because they're the same color as the sky, and sky things should point up."
"Makes perfect sense," Ki agreed, adding a blue car to the designated pile. "What about the purple ones?"
"Those are the special ones. They go in the middle because purple is between red and blue."
"You're absolutely right."
The easy acceptance in Ki's voice made my chest tight. She'd found her place here, among the other Littles who understood the need for soft things and arbitrary sorting systems and logic that only made sense if you didn't think too hard about it.
"Baby girl," I called softly. "Time for inspection."
