Page 49 of Tame Me Daddy

"I think," Grant continued, his tone modulated once more, "that Cherry might benefit from some time to consider this situation. Perhaps we could continue this discussion tomorrow, after everyone has had time to rest and reflect."

It was a diplomatic attempt to end the conversation before it spiraled further, but my father wasn't having it.

"There's nothing to consider," he said flatly. "She's coming with us tomorrow. If she wants to maintain any relationship with her family, she'll do the program."

An ultimatum. Choose them and their conditions, or lose them entirely. It should have been an easy choice—they'd already rejected me once, after all. But family ties aren't rational things. They're twisted roots that go bone-deep, hard to extract no matter how toxic the soil.

I stood on shaky legs. "I need some air."

No one stopped me as I walked to the door, dignity in tatters but still somehow intact. I didn't look back at Grant, couldn't bear to see the pity or concern in his eyes. In that moment, I felt utterly alone—caught between worlds, belonging nowhere.

*

Hoppy's fur was damp with my tears. I clutched him to my chest, rocking slightly on the edge of my bed. The stuffed bunny had seen me through countless nights of loneliness, but tonight felt different. Tonight, I felt like I was losing everything I'd built.

A soft knock at my door made me flinch. I shoved Hoppy under my pillow—an old reflex, hiding evidence of my "sickness."

"Cherry? It's Maya. Can I come in?"

I wiped at my face, but the tears wouldn't stop coming. "It's not a good time," I called, my voice betraying me with a crack.

The door opened anyway. Maya took one look at me and crossed the room without hesitation. The bed dipped as she sat beside me, her arm wrapping around my shoulders.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked simply.

I shook my head, then nodded, then broke into fresh sobs. Maya pulled me closer, letting me cry against her shoulder. She smelled like hay and sunshine and horse—familiar ranch scents that usually comforted me but now just reminded me of everything I stood to lose.

"Your family's really doing a number on you, huh?" she said when my crying slowed.

I pulled back, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "It's complicated."

"Family usually is." She squeezed my shoulder. "But that doesn't give them the right to barge in here and try to ship you off to some military camp."

A hiccuping laugh escaped me. "You heard about that?"

"Word travels fast." She hesitated, then asked gently, "What is this really about, Cherry? What's this 'program' supposed to fix?"

The question hung between us. I'd never told Maya about my little side. Had never told anyone voluntarily, until Grant. The thought of exposing this part of myself again, after my parents had just tainted it with their disgust, made my stomach twist.

But Maya had been nothing but kind to me since I arrived. And if my parents dragged me away tomorrow, I'd never get the chance to tell her the truth.

I reached under my pillow and pulled out Hoppy. Maya's expression didn't change as I settled the worn bunny on my lap.

"When I told my family I was a Little, they disowned me," I said, the words coming out in a rush. "It's . . . it's a kind of identity. Sometimes I need to—to be smaller. Younger. To be taken careof in specific ways. It's not—" I swallowed hard. "It's not sexual. Or it can be, but it doesn't have to be. It's about feeling safe and cared for."

I couldn't look at her as I spoke, focusing instead on Hoppy's threadbare ear. "Some people call it age regression, but it's more complicated than that. I don't actually think I'm a child. I just, sometimes I need to access that part of myself. The vulnerable part that needs different kinds of care."

When Maya didn't immediately respond, I forced myself to continue. "My parents found my little things when I told them. They said I was sick. Perverted. That I needed professional help." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Maybe they're right."

Maya was quiet for so long that I finally looked up, braced for disgust or confusion. Instead, I found her regarding me thoughtfully, no judgment in her expression.

"So this military program," she said finally. "It's what, some kind of conversion therapy with a different name?"

I nodded, surprised by her perceptiveness. "Basically. They think they can drill it out of me. Make me 'normal.'"

"Normal is overrated," Maya replied immediately. "And that program sounds like abuse with a fancy brochure."

A surprised laugh escaped me. "That's one way of putting it."

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