Page 42 of Bratva Bride
The window display wasn't trying to hide what it was. Adult-sized onesies in pastels and prints—clouds, stars, cartoon animals. Pacifiers on silk cords displayed like jewelry. Coloring books that were clearly too intricate for actual children. Stuffed animals arranged on a small bed that looked expensive and loved simultaneously.
"What is this place?"
The question escaped even though my brain had already cataloged the evidence, drawn the conclusion, started panicking about the implications. This was a store for adults who age-regressed. For Littles. For people who found comfort in childhood things they'd been denied or lost or never had.
For people like—
"A safe space," Clara said gently, her fingers still linked with mine, warm and steady. "For Littles. For people like us."
Us. The word hit like lightning. Clara Volkov, the pakhan's wife who commanded rooms with her presence, was a Little? Eva, who'd survived the streets and married Dmitry, was a Little?
"Come on," Eva said, pulling the door open. A bell chimed—soft, musical, nothing like the harsh buzzer of the penthouse intercom. "Sarah's expecting us."
Inside, the store felt like stepping into a dream. Everything was soft—the lighting, the colors, the music playing quietly from hidden speakers. The space was divided into sections with hand-painted signs: Comfort Clothes, Toys & Friends, Peaceful Activities, Knowledge & Understanding. Racks of adult-sized clothing that looked soft enough to disappear into. Shelves of stuffed animals that seemed to watch with kind eyes. A wall of books about DDlg dynamics, age regression, healing your inner child.
My chest felt too tight. My eyes burned with tears I couldn't explain. This place was everything my father had forbidden, everything he'd ripped away when I turned seven and he decided I was old enough to be useful instead of young. Every soft thing, every comfort object, every piece of childhood he'd stolen because intellect mattered more than innocence.
"Breathe," Clara murmured, squeezing my hand. "It's overwhelming the first time."
A woman emerged from behind the counter—mid-forties maybe, with silver streaking through brown hair and the kind of eyes that had seen pain but chosen kindness anyway. She wore jeans and a t-shirt that said "All Littles are Valid" in rainbow letters.
"Clara, Eva." Her voice was warm, welcoming, like honey tea. Then her eyes found me, and something in her expression softened further. "You must be Anya."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Everything in this store was calling to some buried part of me, some seven-year-old girl who'd had her dolls thrown away, who'd been told she was too old for stuffed animals, who'd learned to find comfort in equations instead of teddy bears because numbers were the only soft things allowed.
"I'm Sarah," she said, and her smile was gentle enough not to break me. "Welcome to Little Haven. You're safe here."
Safe. The word nestled into my chest like it was looking for a home. Like maybe, possibly, it might be true.
Sarah led us through the store like a shepherd guiding lost sheep home, past racks of clothing that whispered safety, past shelves that promised comfort without judgment. My fingers trailed along a display of stuffed dragons—purple, green, rose gold—their fabric so soft it made my chest ache with wanting.
"The back room is through here," Sarah said, producing a key from her pocket. Not a modern keycard like Ivan's elevator, butan actual brass key, worn smooth from use. "It's a special space, for special people."
She unlocked a door painted the same soft lavender as the storefront, and gestured us through.
I stepped inside and forgot how to breathe.
The room was everything my father had stripped from my childhood, rebuilt and made safe for adults who'd never gotten to be children. A daybed against one wall, piled with blankets in soft textures—fleece, minky, something that might have been cashmere. The pillows were mismatched but deliberately so, like each one had been chosen for maximum comfort rather than aesthetic. And the stuffed animals—there must have been thirty of them, arranged like they were waiting for someone to need them.
A low table occupied the center of the room, sized so you could sit on the floor and still work comfortably. Coloring books were stacked beside boxes of crayons—good ones, the kind that went down smooth and blended properly. Not children's books but intricate designs: mandalas, gardens, abstract patterns that would require focus and let your mind drift simultaneously.
In the corner sat a rocking chair that looked vintage, painted white but worn at the edges where countless hands had gripped the arms. A bookshelf beside it held picture books mixed with young adult novels, the kinds of stories that were adventures and comfort at once.
Fairy lights strung overhead cast everything in warm, gentle light. Not the harsh fluorescents of my father's office or the calculated ambiance of Ivan's penthouse. This was light designed to soothe, to make shadows soft instead of sharp.
"Sometimes Littles need a space to just be," Sarah said, reading my expression with the practice of someone who'd seen this reaction before. "No judgment. No performance. Just permission to regress."
My throat closed entirely. Permission to regress. Like it was something you could just do. Like you could choose to be small and vulnerable and that would be okay instead of weak.
Eva had already moved to the cushions arranged around the low table, folding herself down with easy grace. Clara followed, settling beside her like this was routine, normal, something they did regularly. After a moment of paralysis, I joined them, my legs shaky as I lowered myself to the floor.
The cushion was memory foam covered in velvet. It cradled my body, supported my back, made sitting on the floor feel luxurious instead of punishing. Clara reached for one of the coloring books, flipping through until she found a mandala design that looked like a flower blooming in geometric patterns.
"This one's good for anxiety," she said, setting it between us. "The repetition is soothing."
She dumped a box of crayons onto the table—sixty-four colors spilling across the wood like a rainbow had shattered. Without discussion, she picked up purple and started coloring one section. Eva grabbed green. They worked in easy silence, like this was meditation, prayer, something sacred.
I picked up blue. Cerulean, according to the wrapper. Started filling in a petal with careful strokes, staying inside the lines because that's what you were supposed to do.
