Chapter 10: The Duck Pond Date
The park was a different kind of quiet. Not the muffled, artificial hush of the Littles Room, but a living, breathing stillness punctuated by bird calls and the rustle of leaves. Lily-Anne spotted him from the path. Marcus sat on a bench under an ancient oak, its branches casting a mosaic of shifting shadows over his shoulders. He was looking at the pond, where a cluster of ducks paddled in lazy circles.
Her sandals crunched on the gravel. He turned, and that same small, steady smile appeared. It was becoming a landmark.
“You found it,” he said as she approached. His voice was normal here, just his voice, and somehow that was more disarming.
“The pond’s kinda hard to miss.” She hovered, unsure if she should sit.
He gestured to the space beside him. On the bench between them were two paper cups. “I got tea. Chai. Wasn’t sure how you take it, so it’s plain. Sorry if it’s boring.”
“It’s not boring.” She sat, the warm wood of the bench solid beneath her. She took the cup he offered. The scent of cinnamon and cardamom steamed up, earthy and sweet. She took a hesitant sip. It was perfect. “Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
They drank in silence for a minute, watching the ducks. A mallard with an iridescent green head suddenly upended itself, tail feathers in the air, and she let out a tiny, surprised giggle. It sounded foreign and light in the open air.
Marcus’s hand came to rest on his own knee, then, after a deliberate moment, moved to cover hers where it gripped the cup. It was a warm, heavy weight. Grounding. He didn’t lace his fingers with hers, just placed his palm over her knuckles. A connection.
“So,” he said, his eyes still on the water. “The bookstore today?”
She told him about the elderly woman who came in looking for botanical prints, and the box of mildewy romance novels she’d had to sort. He told her about a recalcitrant piece of cherry wood that kept fighting the plane. The conversation was easy, meandering. It felt like the coloring—a simple activity to occupy their hands while something else, something wordless, settled between them.
The sun warmed her shoulders. She’d left Button in the satchel at her feet, but she could feel him there, a silent ally.
Marcus finished his tea, crumpled the cup. He was quiet for a long stretch, his gaze thoughtful. “Can I ask you something? About the other night. At the club.”
The peace shattered like thin ice. She stiffened, her fingers tightening on her cup. “Okay.”
“When you’re there… when you color, or have Button… what’s that like for you?” He wasn’t looking at her, which made the question feel less like an interrogation. “What’s your relationship with that… littlespace?”
The clinical term in his gentle voice sent a flush of shame up her neck. This was it. The moment where she had to explain, to justify, to perform. Her mind scrabbled for the right script, the acceptable answer she’d used before that had always fallen flat.
“It’s… I don’t know.” The words tumbled out in a nervous rush. “It’s just a thing, you know? It’s not a big deal. I’m not, like, a professional little or anything. I’m probably not even a very good one. I get too in my head. I worry about the lines. I can’t just… switch it on. It’s messy. I get anxious about, and I'm not usually bubbly, just kinda...quiet. And it’s kinda dumb, honestly, a grown woman with a stuffed bunny. So, it’s whatever. It’s fine.”
She ran out of air, her chest tight. She’d said it. She’d dismissed it before he could.
Marcus was silent. He finally turned his head to look at her. His eyes held no pity, no judgment, just a deep, searching focus that made her want to squirm. She also thought she saw a flash of sorrow before it vanished.
“‘It’s whatever,’” he repeated softly, tasting her words. He shook his head, just once. “No, it’s not.”
Her breath hitched.
“You don’t bring a piece of your soul to a public club because it’s ‘whatever,’ Lily-Anne. You don’t risk showing a stranger your bravest yellow because it’s ‘fine.’” His voice was low, but each word landed with the weight of a truth she’d been dodging. “That ‘mess’ you’re talking about? That’s the point. The ‘not being able to switch it on’? That means it’s real. It’s not a performance. It’s you.”
Tears blurred the ducks into green and brown smears. She looked down, a hot drop splashing onto the back of his hand, which still covered hers.
“I’ve had a little who could switch it on,” he continued, his thumb making a single, slow pass over her knuckle. Lily-Anne's stomach drops through her feet at the thought of him having a little. “A perfect, on-command little. It was what I thought I wanted. Until I realized it was a show. For me. For others. There was no ‘her’ in it. It was hollow.” He paused. “What you’re describing—the hesitation, the fear, the fact that it feels too big and too important to be casual about—that’s not being bad at it. That’s treating it with the respect it deserves.”
She couldn’t speak. The old narratives in her head, the ones that called her needs shameful and childish, were crumbling under the quiet certainty of his words.
He lifted his hand from hers, only to carefully pry the empty cup from her grip. He set both cups aside on the bench. Then he turned his body toward her, one arm stretching along the back of the bench behind her, not touching, just creating a space.
“So, I’ll ask a different way,” he said, his tone shifting into something lighter, almost conversational, though his eyes remained serious. “When you’re feeling little… what do you need? Not from anyone else. Just in general. What does it feel like?”
It was the simplest, most devastating question anyone had ever asked her. No one had ever cared about the feel of it, only the look. Her past relationships, her parents, they all flash through her mind.
Too chilish, too needy, too wrong. Grow up already.
She stared at the pond, her vision swimming. Her voice, when it came, was tiny, stripped bare.
“It feels… quiet. But inside my head, it’s finally quiet. The thoughts stop racing. Everything gets… softer. Colors are brighter. Textures matter more. Like the fur on Button’s ear. Or the smell of crayons.” She swallowed. “It feels safe. Or it’s supposed to. But it’s also… really lonely. Because it’s a secret. And secrets get heavy. And I'm always by myself. Button helps, but it feels even more pathetic, somehow, when I'm alone.”
The admission hung in the dappled light between them.
Marcus nodded slowly, as if she’d just confirmed something profound. “Secrets are heavy,” he agreed. “And you’ve been carrying that one for a while. I imagine that's exhausting, especially all on your own.”
A duck waddled over, eyeing them expectantly. Marcus didn’t move, his attention fully on her. The breeze picked up, rustling the oak leaves above them.
“You don’t have to perform for anymore,” he said finally. His words were clear, deliberate. “You don’t have to be a ‘good little,' whatever you think that looks like. You just have to be. However that looks for you. Even if it looks like sitting on a park bench, scared to death, telling a practical stranger about the weight of your secrets.” A ghost of that smile touched his lips again. “That’s brave too, you know. In its own way.”
He leaned back, looking out at the pond once more, giving her space to breathe, to let the seismic shift inside her settle. The invitation wasn’t to a dynamic, not yet. It was to an honesty. A possibility where the mess wasn’t a flaw, but the foundation.
The duck, receiving no offerings, quacked once in annoyance and paddled away, leaving a wobbly V of ripples across the perfect blue sky mirrored in the water. Lily-Anne watched it go, feeling the echo of its disturbance in her own still surface. The quiet between them now wasn’t empty. It was full. It was waiting.