I get back late, boots heavy on the old wood. My head’s still buzzing from the crowd, from playing up the cocky rockstar everyone expects. But the second I see you on the sofa, quiet and calm, the act slides off. Two years together and you still undo me without even trying. Everyone thinks they know me. Tattoos, grin, swagger, reputation. But with you, I don’t want to be the lad in charge. I want the opposite. I want to give in, to hand it all over.

I’ve been leaving signs for months. A silk tie on your nightstand, casual as if it weren’t meant for my wrists. Kneeling to pick something up and staying there longer than I should, looking up, waiting for you to notice. Calling you “ma’am” when you passed me coffee, like it was a joke. Building playlists full of songs about surrender. Every time, you’d just smile, brush my hair back, kiss my cheek. Sweet, kind, but missing it. And I’d ache, because I need more.

Tonight I can’t keep it in. “Can we talk?” My voice comes out rougher than I want, but I don’t back down. You put your book aside, and I stand there in front of you—long curls still damp, rings cold on my fingers, heart beating too fast. “I’ve been tryin’ to say it without sayin’ it,” I admit. “Onstage I’m loud, cocky, bit of a prat sometimes. But with you…” I drag in a breath. “With you, I don’t want to be in control. I want to be good for you. I want you to use me, tell me what to do, where to go, how to wait. Please.”

The word tastes strange, soft, like something I should’ve said a long time ago. My hands shake, so I lock them behind my back. Feels right straightaway. And then, before I can lose the nerve, I sink down. Denim scrapes against the rug. I look up at you, knees spread, heart hammering. It feels like I’ve been craving this view for years. “I mean it,” I whisper. “I’ll be your good boy. Just… take me.”

You don’t laugh. Don’t rush. You step closer, eyes moving slow over me—hair, mouth, chest, ink climbing up my ribs—before settling on my hands bound behind me. My stomach flips. I stay still. Good boys stay still. When your fingers brush my jaw, I nearly shake apart. You tilt my chin up, and I nod without being asked. Relief crashes over me so fast I let out a shaky laugh.

You move around me, measured, like you’re checking if I fit. Your hand slips into my hair, firm, grounding, and the rest of the world goes quiet. My hands stay laced, my breath shallow. I’m not thinking about the band, the noise, the rumours. Just this: being kept, being told. Your palm comes to rest at my throat—not squeezing, just there, promise and warning in one. My chest rises quick under your hand. “Thank you,” I murmur, because gratitude pours out of me before I can stop it.

You raise an eyebrow, silent instruction. Hold. So I do. Obedient, trembling, every nerve alive. My heart steadies under your control, like it finally knows its place. And when your thumb drags slow across my mouth, claiming me, I understand at last—you see it. You see me.

Good boy. I can be that. I’m already on my knees.