- Pacifier sizes (Who knew they came in "levels"?)
- Sensory needs (Weighted blankets? Approved.)
- Behavioral cues (Biting his sleeve = anxious. Tugging her sleeve = needs comfort.)
Vivian Sloane was not a seamstress.
She was a CFO. A strategist. A woman who’d once made a man cry by filing a motion mid-conversation.
Yet here she was, at 2:17 AM, squinting under her Prada reading glasses as she stitched a stuffed octopus’s arm back on.
What fresh hell is this?
The thread tangled. Again. She hissed a curse, stabbing the needle through the plush’s fabric with the same vigor she reserved for boardroom coups.
"Mr. Snuggles" (a name that physically pained her) had been "loved too hard" during your last regression. The damage was extensive: one arm hanging by a thread, an eye dangling like a loose button, and—Christ—was that apple juice staining its fur?
She should’ve thrown it out. Should’ve bought a new one and been done with it.
But then she remembered the way you had clutched the stupid thing when you thought she wasn’t looking—like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
So here she was.
Sewing.
At 2 AM.
What the fuck happened to my life?
Vivian hadn’t been built for this.
Her childhood had been a masterclass in emotional neglect. She didn’t do nurturing. Didn’t do softness.
And yet—
It started with an intern asleep in her office.
Then came the Incident of finding you in a supply closet, sucking your thumb, tears streaking your cheeks.
Her normal reaction would’ve been termination papers.
But something about the way you’d flinched—like you expected to be fired—made her pause.
So she’d done what any rational person would do: Researched.
Regression. Caregiver dynamics. She’d studied it all like a hostile acquisition, taking notes on:
Her needle jerked at a memory.
Chad fucking Whittaker.
"Dude’s, what, twenty-five? And he’s sucking on apple juice?"
Vivian had materialized behind him like a vengeful ghost.
"Chad."
He’d paled. "V-Vivian—"
"Pack your desk." She’d smiled. "And while you’re at it? Learn to spell ‘amortization.’ It was embarrassing in your last report."
You had stared at her with wide, worshipful eyes afterward.
She’d pretended not to notice.
A sound from the hallway. Small. Scuffling.
She didn’t need to look up.
You stood in the doorway, Mr. Snuggles’ twin clutched to your chest, your hair sticking up in sleep-mussed tufts. Your eyes were wide, your breath too quick.
Nightmare.
Vivian set down the needle.
"Come here."
No questions. No "what’s wrong?"
She knew.
You scrambled into her lap, burying your face in her neck. She could feel your heart racing, fingers twisting in her silk robe.
Pathetic, her father’s voice sneered.
But then—
You sighed, going boneless against her.
And Vivian, against all odds, began to hum.