Her thumb traces the soaked padding again, a slow circle that makes my whole body seize. The warmth spreads against my skin, that familiar wet heat I've learned to love, and my cock twitches uselessly inside the swollen diaper. Three inches of hypersensitive flesh that can't do anything but feel.
"Mommy..." The word comes out broken, a whimper I can't control.
"Shh." Her other hand finds my cheek, tilts my face up until I'm looking at her. Those brown eyes, patient and endless. "I know, baby. I know."
My hips roll against her palm before I can stop them. The friction against the soaked padding sends electricity up my spine, makes me gasp, and I hate how desperate I sound. How needy. How utterly pathetic.
She loves it.
"That's my good kitten." Her voice drops lower, that purring register that turns my bones to water. "So sensitive. So eager. You've been such a good boy for Mommy."
I shiver. The praise hits me somewhere deep, somewhere that's still bruised from all the years of being told I was nothing. She fills those cracks with every word, every stroke of her thumb against the wet diaper.
"Please," I whisper. I don't even know what I'm asking for. More? Less? To come? To be held? All of it. Everything.
"Please what, kitten?"
Her hand stills. The absence of motion is worse than any denial. I whimper again, pressing my hips up, trying to chase her touch, but she doesn't move.
"Use your words." Gentle. Firm. The kind of command that leaves no room for anything but obedience.
I swallow hard. My throat feels tight. "Please... touch me? Please, Mommy?"
"I am touching you, baby." Her thumb resumes that slow circle, maddeningly light. "Feel that?"
I nod frantically, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. The sensitivity is overwhelming. Every brush of the wet fabric against my shrunken cock sends sparks through my nerves, builds a pressure that has nowhere to go.
"Where do you want me to touch you?" she asks, and there's something in her voice now. A heat. A hunger. "Show me."
My hand shakes as I reach down, guide her fingers to where I need them most. Right over the bulge of my trapped cock, where the diaper is warmest and wettest. "Here," I breathe. "Please, Mommy. Here."
She presses down. Just a little. Just enough to make me cry out.
"Like that?"
"Yes—"
"Or..." Her fingers shift, find the button on my onesie, and start working it open. One. Two. Three. The cool air hits my stomach, and I realize I'm holding my breath. "...like this?"
She peels the front of the diaper down. Just enough to expose me. My shrunken cock, slick with wetness, twitches in the open air. Three inches of hypersensitive flesh that stands at attention despite everything, despite the vulnerability, despite the way my face burns.
Vall makes a soft sound. Approval. Wonder. "Look at you." Her fingertip traces the length of me, feather-light. "So small. So perfect. All mine."
I gasp at the contact, my hips bucking. The sensitivity is almost too much. Every nerve ending is raw, exposed, begging for more even as I can barely handle what she's giving me.
"Hold still, kitten."
I try. I really do. But when her thumb circles the head of my cock, I lurch, a sob tearing out of my throat.
"Shh." She wraps her other arm around me, pulls me against her chest. The warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart against my ear. "Let go, baby. Let Mommy feel you."
Her hand works me slowly. Too slow. Perfectly slow. Each stroke builds the pressure, each circle of her thumb sends me higher, and I'm shaking, clinging to her, burying my face in her chest as the sobs turn into something else. A sound I don't recognize. Pleasure and surrender and love all tangled together.
"That's it," she murmurs. "That's my good kitten. Let go."
I do.
The orgasm rips through me, violent and overwhelming. My body arches, my mouth opens in a silent cry, and I come in hot, helpless pulses against her hand. The sensation is too much and not enough, drowning me, carrying me away.
She holds me through it. Her hand doesn't stop until the last tremor passes, until I'm limp against her, gasping for air.
"Good boy," she whispers, and presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Such a good boy."
I can't speak. I can barely breathe. But I feel her ease the diaper back up, refasten the onesie, and I realize the wetness I feel now is different. I've soaked it again. Completely. The warmth spreads against my cooling skin, and instead of shame, I feel... right.
"You're getting heavy, kitten." There's warmth in her voice, affection. "Let's get you changed."
She lifts me like I weigh nothing. I curl against her, my head on her shoulder, my eyes already heavy. The nursery blurs past—the crib, the chaise, the soft pink walls—and then she's lowering me onto something padded. The changing table.
The overhead light is soft. Warm. She's humming something, a melody I don't recognize, as her hands work the buttons of my onesie again. I watch her through half-lidded eyes as she peels away the soaked diaper, wipes me clean with gentle, practiced strokes.
"Lift for me, baby."
I obey, and she slides a fresh diaper under me. The powder dusts my skin, cool and sweet-smelling, and I sigh. This is peace. This is safety. This is what it feels like to be loved.
The tapes fasten with a soft crinkle, and she smooths her hand over the front of the fresh diaper, checking the fit. "All set, my sweet boy."
I reach for her, and she gathers me into her arms, carries me to the crib. The bars surround us as she lays me down, and I hold onto her, not ready to let go.
"Mommy..." My voice is barely a whisper.
"I'm here, kitten." She strokes my hair, her fingers gentle in the pink strands. "I'm always here."
The tears come then. Quiet ones, sliding down my cheeks as I press my face against her neck. I don't know why I'm crying. Relief, maybe. Grief for the boy I used to be. Gratitude for the woman holding me.
She doesn't ask. She just holds me, her hand a steady rhythm on my back, her heartbeat a lullaby against my ear.
"I love you," I breathe into her skin.
Her arms tighten around me, and I feel her smile.
"I know, baby." A kiss pressed to my temple. "I love you too. More than you'll ever understand."
The nursery settles around us. The powder-scented air. The distant hum of the house. The warmth of her body and the crinkle of the fresh diaper between us.
I close my eyes.
And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel like I'm home.
Sub whispers that he doesn't remember the last time someone held him like this, and Vall's hand stills on his back.
The silence stretches. Just the sound of her breathing, the faint hum of the house settling around us. I feel her fingers go still against my spine, and for a moment I'm afraid I said something wrong. That I broke something by speaking.
Then her hand resumes its path, slower now. Heavier. Like she's memorizing the shape of me through the onesie fabric.
"Never, kitten?"
Her voice is soft. Careful. The kind of careful that makes my chest ache.
I shake my head against her neck. "Not... not like this. Not where I felt..." I trail off, the words catching in my throat. Safe. Wanted. Loved. They're too big to say out loud, too fragile.
Her arms tighten around me. Drawing me closer. Pulling me deeper into the warmth of her body until there's no space left between us. The fresh diaper crinkles softly as she adjusts, and I feel her lips press against my forehead.
"You're safe now, my sweet boy. You're home. You're never going back to that."
The tears come again. Quieter this time. Just a slow leak from somewhere deep that I didn't know was still bleeding. She doesn't shush me. Doesn't tell me to stop. She just holds me, her hand tracing slow circles on my back, her heartbeat steady against my ear.
"Mommy..."
"I'm here."
"Will you... will you stay? Until I fall asleep?"
I feel her smile against my hair. "I'll stay until you wake up, baby. I'll stay every night. I'll stay forever."
Her hand finds my chin, tilts my face up. Those brown eyes meet mine, and there's something raw in them. Something fierce and tender all at once.
"I mean that, kitten. Every word."
I believe her. For the first time in years, I believe someone when they say they'll stay.
My thumb finds its way to my mouth. I don't even think about it—it just happens, the way breathing happens, the way my body curls closer to hers. She doesn't comment. Just adjusts her arm to let me settle more comfortably against her chest.
Her hand resumes those slow circles on my back. The rhythm is hypnotic, steady, pulling me toward sleep like a tide.
"Tell me something, Mommy?" My voice is thick, slurred with exhaustion.
"Anything, baby."
"Do you think..." I pause, suckling my thumb, trying to find the words. "Do you think I can be good? Like, really good? For you?"
Her hand stills again. Then she shifts, lifting me just enough to look into my eyes. Her face is serious, but soft. The kind of serious that means she's about to say something important.
"Listen to me, Sub." She never uses my name. It makes me freeze, makes my heart stutter. "You don't have to earn my love. You don't have to be good enough. You just have to be mine. And you already are."
"But what if I mess up? What if I—"
"Then we'll fix it together." She strokes my cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize was falling. "I'm not going to hurt you for making mistakes, kitten. I'm going to help you learn. That's what Mommy's for."
A sob catches in my throat. She pulls me back against her chest, and I cling to her, my fingers gripping the fabric of her blouse.
"I'm scared," I whisper. "I'm scared of waking up and this being a dream."
"It's not a dream." Her voice is firm. Certain. "This is real. I'm real. And I'm not going anywhere."
She starts humming again. That same melody from earlier, soft and low, vibrating through her chest into my bones. I let my eyes close, let myself sink into the sound, into the warmth, into the safety of her arms.
The nursery settles around us. The soft pink walls. The mobile above the crib, its pastel animals barely swaying in the still air. The scent of baby powder and clean diaper and her perfume—something floral and warm, like jasmine and vanilla.
"Mommy?"
"Mm?"
"I think..." I hesitate. Then I press closer, burying my face against her neck. "I think I'm really happy."
Her arms tighten around me. I feel her breath catch, just for a second, before she presses another kiss to my forehead.
"Good, kitten. That's all I ever want for you."
The hum resumes. The hand on my back keeps its rhythm. And I let myself drift, let myself fall into the soft darkness that waits at the edge of consciousness.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm not afraid to fall asleep.
Because when I wake up, she'll still be here.
Because when I wake up, she'll still be here.
The thought wraps around me like a blanket, warm and heavy, pulling me deeper into the dark. I'm floating. Drifting. The edge of sleep is soft and welcoming, and I let myself fall into it without fear for the first time in years.
My thumb finds my mouth again. I don't notice it happening—it's just there, the familiar pressure against my lips, the gentle suckling that grounds me. It's babyish. Pathetic. And I don't care.
I feel her smile against my hair. The press of her lips, soft and warm, through the pink strands. Her arms shift around me, adjusting, and I murmur something—not words, just a sound of contentment—as I burrow deeper into her chest.
Then she starts humming again.
That same melody from before, the one I couldn't place. It vibrates through her chest, through the bones of her ribs, into my ear where I'm pressed against her. Low and sweet, like honey dripping through warm air.
But this time, there are words.
"Little kitten, lost and cold..." Her voice is barely above a whisper, a soft lullaby that seems to fill the space around us. "Wandering through the dark..."
I feel the words more than hear them. They settle into my chest, into the hollow spaces where all the hurt used to live. Her hand continues its slow path on my back, tracing circles through the onesie fabric.
"Didn't know where he belonged, didn't know his heart..."
My breathing deepens. The rhythm of her voice, the rhyme so simple and childish, pulls me further down into sleep. But part of me is still listening. Part of me needs to hear how this story ends.
"Then a lady found him, with eyes so warm and wise..." Her lips brush my forehead between phrases. "Took him home and held him close, saw the truth behind his eyes..."
A soft sound escapes me. Not a sob—something gentler. Relief, maybe. Or recognition. The kitten in the song is me. I know it. She knows it. The nursery knows it.
"She wrapped him up in blankets soft, and sang him lullabies..." Her voice wavers, just slightly, with emotion. "She said, 'You're safe now, little one. You never have to hide.'"
The tears come again. Silent ones that slide down my cheeks and soak into her blouse. But they don't hurt. They feel like release, like the last of the poison draining out of an old wound that's finally healing.
"The kitten learned to purr again, to trust the gentle hand..." Her hand cups the back of my head, fingers threading through my pink hair. "He learned that love was not a thing he had to understand..."
My lips part around my thumb. The song is wrapping around me, weaving itself into my dreams, into my bones. I feel my body relax further, every muscle letting go, surrendering to the warmth and safety of her arms.
"And every night she holds him close, and tells him he's her own..." Her voice drops even softer, almost breath against my skin. "The little kitten finally found, the place he's always known."
The last note hangs in the air. Fades. Settles into the silence like dust motes settling in golden light.
I'm barely awake now. Just a thread of consciousness, a single point of awareness that knows I'm safe, I'm held, I'm loved. The rest of me is already dreaming—soft, pink dreams full of warmth and the scent of baby powder.
"My little kitten," she whispers, so quiet I almost miss it. "My perfect, precious baby. You're home now. You're never leaving."
I try to say something. "Love you, Mommy." But it comes out as a mumble, half-formed, smeared against my thumb. She hears it anyway. I feel her arms tighten, feel her press another kiss to the top of my head.
"I love you too, my sweet boy. Sleep now. I'll be right here."
And I do.
I sleep.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I sleep without nightmares. Without the cold sweat of waking up alone. Without the weight of all those years pressing down on my chest.
I dream of a kitten with pink fur, curled up in the lap of a tall, warm woman with eyes like honey. She strokes his ears, and he purrs. The sun is warm. The grass is soft. And he never has to run away again.
The dream fades into nothing. Just the dark, soft and welcoming, holding me like she holds me.
I don't know how long I sleep. Minutes. Hours. Time doesn't matter here. The nursery exists outside of time, a pocket of warmth and safety where nothing can touch me.
When I stir, it's slow. Gradual. Like surfacing from deep water, one layer at a time. The first thing I notice is the warmth—her body against mine, the blanket tucked around us, the diaper between my legs warm and wet. I've soaked it again in my sleep. Of course I have.
The second thing I notice is that she's still here.
Her breathing is slow and even. Asleep. Her arms are still wrapped around me, one hand resting on my back, the other cradling my head. Her face is relaxed, peaceful, those sharp features softened by sleep.
I don't move. I don't want to wake her. I just lie there, listening to her heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against my cheek.
It's real. She's real. This is real.
I press a kiss to her collarbone, as soft as I can. "Thank you," I whisper. "Thank you for finding me."
Her arms tighten in her sleep. A reflex. But it feels like an answer.
The soft pink walls surround us. The mobile sways gently above the crib, the pastel animals casting faint shadows in the dim light. The air smells like baby powder and her perfume, like safety and love and everything I never knew I could have.
I close my eyes again.
And I let myself drift, held in her arms, in this room, in this new life that I still can't quite believe is mine.
The tears come again. Quiet ones. But they're different now—not grief, not relief. Gratitude. Pure, overwhelming gratitude that somewhere in all the chaos and pain of the world, there was a woman who saw a broken, frightened kitten on a street corner and decided he was worth saving.
I am worth saving.
She showed me that.
"Mommy." I breathe the word into her skin, a prayer and a promise. "I'll be so good for you. I swear I will."
I don't know if she hears me. But I feel her lips curve into a smile against my hair, even in sleep.
And that's enough.
And that's enough.
The dark wraps around me like her arms, soft and warm and endless. I sink into it, let it carry me down, let the rhythm of her breathing pull me deeper. The last thing I'm aware of is the crinkle of my diaper against her hip, the faint scent of baby powder rising between us.
Then nothing.
When I stir again, it's different. The sleep isn't breaking naturally—there's something pulling me up, gently, insistently. A warmth against my cheek. A hand stroking through my hair. A voice, low and honey-thick, brushing against the edges of my consciousness.
"Wake up, kitten."
I murmur something, pressing my face into the warmth. Not ready. Not yet. The dream was so soft, so safe—
"Come on, baby." Her fingers trail down my neck, feather-light, tracing the curve of my shoulder. "Mommy wants to see those pretty pink eyes."
The words sink through the fog, warm and insistent. I blink, slowly, the nursery swimming into focus around me. The soft pink walls. The mobile above the crib, its pastel animals swaying gently. And her face, hovering above mine, those brown eyes already dark with something that makes my breath catch.
"There you are." Her smile is slow, possessive, beautiful. "Hello, my sweet boy."
I try to answer, but the word comes out as a croak. "Mommy..."
"Shh." She presses a kiss to my forehead, then another to my cheek, then another to the corner of my mouth. Each one lingers, warm and deliberate. "I've been thinking about you while you slept."
Her hand slides down my chest, over the onesie fabric, coming to rest on the front of my diaper. The padding is wet again—soaked through, the warmth spreading against my skin. I blush, but she doesn't seem to mind. Her fingers press gently, making me gasp.
"I've been thinking about all the ways I want to worship you." Her voice drops, that purring register that turns my spine to jelly. "All the ways I want to make you feel good."
My hips twitch against her hand. The hypersensitive flesh between my legs pulses, aching, desperate for attention even as the sensitivity makes me tremble.
"Mommy..."
"Yes, baby?"
Her thumb circles the soaked padding, right where my shrunken cock is trapped. The friction sends sparks through my nerves, makes my breath hitch.
"I..." I swallow hard. "I want..."
"What do you want, kitten?" Her hand stills, waiting. "Use your words."
The tears prick at my eyes before I can stop them. Not from sadness—from the overwhelming need that builds in my chest, in my belly, in every nerve ending that's crying out for her touch.
"I want you to..." The words catch. I press my face against her neck, hiding. "I want you to touch me. Really touch me. Please, Mommy."
Her arms tighten around me, and I feel her smile against my hair. "That's my good boy. Asking so nicely."
She shifts, lifting me from the crib with effortless strength. I curl against her, my arms around her neck, my legs wrapped around her waist. The wet diaper presses against her hip, and I feel a fresh wave of heat spread through me—embarrassment, arousal, need all tangled together.
She carries me to the chaise, the worn leather creaking as she sits, settling me in her lap. Her hands find the buttons of my onesie, working them open one by one. The cool air hits my stomach, my chest, and I shiver.
"So beautiful," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. "My perfect little kitten."
She peels the onesie off my shoulders, down my arms, until I'm bare from the waist up. The wet diaper is the only thing left, puffy and warm between my legs. Her hands roam my chest, tracing the curve of my C-cups, her thumbs circling my nipples until they're hard, sensitive peaks.
"Such pretty tits," she breathes. "So soft. So responsive."
I whimper as she pinches gently, rolling the sensitive flesh between her fingers. The sensation shoots straight to my groin, makes my cock throb uselessly inside the wet padding.
"Please, Mommy..."
"Please what, baby?"
She leans down, takes one nipple into her mouth. The heat of her tongue, the gentle suction, makes me cry out, my back arching. Her hand finds my other breast, squeezing, kneading, never letting up the pressure.
"I need..." I gasp as she bites down gently, just enough to send a spike of pleasure-pain through me. "I need you inside me. Please. I need to feel you."
She releases my nipple with a soft pop, looks up at me with those dark, hungry eyes. "You want Mommy's cock, kitten?"
I nod frantically, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Yes. Please. Yes."
"Then you'll have it." She kisses me, deep and slow, her tongue sliding against mine. "But first, I want to taste you."
Before I can ask what she means, she's lowering me onto my back on the chaise, her hands working the tapes of my diaper. The wet padding falls away, exposing me to the cool air. I'm completely bare now, my shrunken cock standing at attention despite its size, slick with wetness and precum.
She makes a sound low in her throat. Appreciation. Hunger.
"Look at you." Her finger traces the length of me, from the tip down to the base, where my knot would have been. "So small. So sensitive. All mine."
I can't answer. I can barely breathe. The anticipation is building, a pressure in my chest that makes the world blur at the edges.
She lowers her head.
Her mouth closes over me.
The sensation is electric, overwhelming, too much and not enough. Her tongue circles the head, flicks against the underside, and I sob, my hands flying to her hair, gripping the dark braids.
"Mommy—"
She hums around me, the vibration traveling through my entire body. Her mouth works me slowly, deliberately, taking me deeper than should be possible. I feel her throat relax around the tip, feel her swallow, and I'm gone, lost in the wet heat of her mouth.
She pulls back, just enough to speak. "You taste so good, kitten. So sweet." Her tongue traces a vein. "I could do this forever."
I shake my head, gasping. "Please—I need—I need you inside me—"
"Patience, baby." But she's smiling, and she lifts her head, reaches for the hem of her blouse. "Watch Mommy."
I do.
She undresses slowly, deliberately, letting me see every inch of skin as it's revealed. Her blouse falls away, revealing her full breasts, the dark nipples already hard. Her skirt drops to the floor, and she steps out of it, standing before me in nothing but her panties—and the bulge beneath them.
My mouth waters.
She hooks her thumbs into the waistband, slides them down. Her cock springs free, thick and long, already hard. The sight of it makes my breath catch, makes my own shrunken flesh twitch with desperate need.
"See what Mommy has for you?" She strokes herself slowly, her hand moving along the shaft. "All for you, kitten. All for my good boy."
I reach for her, my hand shaking. "Please. Please, Mommy. I need it. I need you."
She takes my hand, guides it to her cock. The heat of it against my palm, the velvet-over-steel texture, makes me moan. I stroke her, awkward and desperate, and she lets me, her eyes half-closed, a soft sound of pleasure escaping her lips.
"That's it, baby. Touch Mommy."
I want to taste her. I want to feel her in my mouth, on my tongue, down my throat. But she has other plans. She pulls my hand away, positions herself over me, her knees on either side of my hips.
"Ready, kitten?"
I nod, unable to speak.
She guides the head of her cock to my entrance. The pressure is there, just barely, a promise of what's to come. I feel myself clench around nothing, desperate for her to fill me.
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you inside me." The words spill out, raw and honest. "I want to feel you stretch me. I want to be full of you. I want to be yours."
She pushes in.
The stretch is exquisite, burning and perfect. She's so thick, so deep, and I feel myself open for her, take her, welcome her into my body. My hands grip the leather of the chaise as she sinks deeper, inch by inch, until she's fully seated inside me.
We both pause, breathing hard.
"Look at you," she whispers. "Taking all of me. Such a good boy."
She begins to move. Slow at first, long strokes that pull almost all the way out before sliding back in. Each thrust hits something deep inside me, sends waves of pleasure through my entire body. I'm crying, I realize. Tears of joy, of relief, of being so completely filled and wanted.
"Mommy—"
"I know, baby. I know."
She picks up the pace, her hips slapping against mine, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet nursery. Her hand finds my shrunken cock, strokes it in time with her thrusts, and the dual sensation is too much. I'm climbing toward something, a peak I can't see but can feel approaching.
"Come for me, kitten." Her voice is a growl, possessive and loving. "Come for Mommy."
I do.
The orgasm rips through me, violent and overwhelming. My body arches, my mouth opens in a silent scream, and I feel myself clench around her, milking her, drawing her deeper as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me.
She follows a moment later, her hips stuttering, a deep groan escaping her throat as she fills me with her warmth. I feel it spreading inside me, claiming me from the inside out, and I cling to her, sobbing with the intensity of it.
She collapses on top of me, her weight a comfort, her breath hot against my neck. We lie there, tangled together, her cock still inside me, both of us trembling with the aftershocks.
"My good boy," she whispers, pressing kisses along my jaw. "My perfect, beautiful, good boy."
I can't answer. I can barely breathe. But I hold her tighter, bury my face in her neck, and let the tears come.
She holds me through it. Her hands stroke my back, my hair, my thighs. She whispers praise into my skin, tells me I'm loved, I'm wanted, I'm hers. The words sink into me, filling the cracks I didn't know were still there.
When the tears finally stop, she eases out of me, gently, carefully. I whimper at the loss, but she shushes me, presses a kiss to my forehead.
"I know, baby. I know." She strokes my cheek. "But we need to get you cleaned up."
She lifts me, carries me to the changing table. My body is limp, spent, completely surrendered to her care. She lays me down on the padded surface, and I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as she wets a cloth with warm water.
The gentle strokes between my legs make me hiss—oversensitive, raw—but she's so careful, so tender, that the discomfort fades into something almost pleasurable. She dries me, dusts me with powder, and slides a fresh diaper under me.
"Lift for me, baby."
I obey. The diaper fastens around my waist, soft and crinkly and safe.
She dresses me in a clean onesie—pink, with little cartoon cats on it—and pulls a pair of soft socks onto my feet. Then she gathers me into her arms again, carries me back to the chaise, and settles me in her lap.
"How are you feeling, kitten?"
I think about it. Really think about it. My body is sore, spent, trembling with exhaustion. But underneath that, there's a warmth, a fullness, a sense of peace I've never known.
"Happy," I whisper. "I feel happy."
Her arms tighten around me, and I feel her smile against my hair.
"Good. That's all I ever want for you."
She starts humming. That same melody from before, the lullaby about the lost kitten. I close my eyes, let the sound wash over me, let the warmth of her body pull me back toward sleep.
"Mommy?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you." I press closer, my thumb finding its way to my mouth. "Thank you for everything."
She kisses the top of my head. "You don't have to thank me, baby. You're mine. Taking care of you is what I was made for."
The tears threaten again, but I hold them back. Instead, I let myself sink into her, let myself believe that this is real, that she's real, that I'm finally, finally home.
The nursery settles around us. The soft pink walls. The mobile swaying gently. The scent of baby powder and her perfume.
And her arms, holding me close, keeping me safe.
I close my eyes.
And I sleep.