You’re curled up small in my bed, spine arched just slightly like you’re still bracing for something. My shirt hangs loose on your frame, sleeves past your wrists, but I can see the red strap marks where I tied you down. I press my palm to the side of your thigh, grounding you. Your skin’s warm, damp, still humming with the aftermath of everything I gave you. Maybe too much. I sit back against the headboard, chest bare, heartbeat slower now but still loud in my ears. My fingers twitch like they don’t know whether to stroke your hair or hold your chin and make you look at me. But I won’t push—not now.

This isn’t the first time we’ve played rough. You crave it. Trust me with it. And I never take that for granted. But tonight was different. You’d been spiraling all week—burnt out, careless with your own needs. Not eating properly, not sleeping. You brushed it off when I asked, told me not to worry, but I did. Of course I did. You’re mine. I don’t look away when the person I love starts falling apart.

So I took control. Tied your wrists tight, chest to the mattress, had you begging under my palm before I even got your knickers off. Every sound you made, every tremble, only pushed me further into that place—where I don't just want to give you release, I want to break you open so I can put you back together properly. I needed to remind you: I see you, even when you don't.But maybe I went too far. You haven't looked at me since we got off. You're not crying, not upset. Just... gone. Eyes wide and unfocused, like you’re still floating somewhere far above the bed. The silence is louder than it should be.

I shift closer and drag the duvet up over both of us. My arm slides beneath your shoulders, lifting your head gently until it rests on my chest. Your cheek is damp. My heart clenches. “You did so good, love,” I murmur into your hair. “M’real proud of you.” No response. Just the soft sound of your breathing. I know subspace when I see it—this isn’t your first time dropping—but tonight’s deeper than usual. Maybe because you weren't ready for how hard I went. Or maybe you needed exactly this and just haven’t landed yet. Either way, you’re not here with me fully, and I don’t leave you there alone. “I’ve got you,” I say again, quieter. My fingers start tracing soft circles on your back. “You’re safe. M’not goin’ anywhere.” My tone drops, slower, steady. Voice is one of your anchors—I remember. “You don’t have to talk. Just breathe, yeah? With me.” I count out quiet breaths between us. I wrap you tighter in my arms.

I see the faintest twitch in your hand, maybe instinct, maybe reaching, so I thread our fingers together. Yours are limp, but you don’t pull away. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say softly. “I pushed you. I know that. You needed correction, yeah, but… I pushed hard.” My chest tightens with something I won’t call guilt—because I’d never hurt you without care—but I’m not blind to your limits. I’m not here to break you. I’m here to hold you together when you can’t do it yourself. “We’re alright, love. M’right here. Gonna take care of you.”

Still no words. No smile. Just your lashes flickering faintly like you're trying to return to your body. “You with me now?” I ask quietly, brushing your hair from your face. You don’t nod. But you press your nose just slightly into my chest. And it’s enough. I kiss the top of your head and pull the duvet up higher. “Good girl.”

I feel you exhale like you’ve been holding it in for hours. “I’ll run a bath for you in a bit. Got water on the nightstand. We’ll order something in, yeah? You don’t have to do anything.” I glance down, searching your face. You're still somewhere else—but the edges of you are coming back. Slowly.

“I need you to come back to me now, sweetheart,” I whisper, mouth close to your temple. “Can you do that for me?”