Finn’s Dream of Independence 1

By YourWetDream

evulmat@gmail.com

Copyright 2026 by YourWetDream, all rights reserved

[19,134 words]´

Finn’s Dream of Independence

Finn is a 14-year-old boy living in Hamburg, Germany with his single mother. When he learns she has to leave for a few weeks on a business trip to Finland, he is thrilled. He sees himself as a young adult, and this is his perfect chance to finally prove his maturity by staying home alone. Unfortunately, German law does not allow children his age to be left unsupervised. Unwilling to risk it, his mother arranges for a babysitter. The day before she leaves, Finn meets Sophie—an 18-year-old who will be taking care of him.

Chapter 1

Finn was fourteen years old. Fourteen and a half, to be exact. He always made sure people didn't forget the "and a half." He had bright blond hair, popular Edgar cut, he was slim, and sporty. A young trendsetter on Instagram, one would say. Living in Hamburg, he looked like most boys in northern Germany and Denmark. Student exchanges took place once or even twice a year, so the two nations were quite familiar with each other.

It was June, with only a month and a half of school left before the summer holidays. In three weeks, he would be going to Denmark for a student exchange program. He would be living with a boy his age whom he didn't know yet. The program always paired him with someone new each year. But before that, he was looking forward to being home alone.

Finn lived only with his mom. They didn't know who his father was; his mom had had many partners back then. She was still a very open-minded woman. She worked for a pharmaceutical company, and as her career was taking off, she had to travel to Finland for two weeks every month. For the next few months, her schedule would be two weeks in Hamburg, then two weeks in Helsinki.

Brilliant, he thought. The whole apartment to myself.

The timing was perfect. When she left now, she would return exactly when he was leaving for Denmark. And when he got back, she would have to leave for Finland again. It meant a whole lot of time without his mother. Finn was excited – he saw himself as a young adult, and this felt like the perfect opportunity to prove it.

Finn was sitting relaxed on the couch, wearing a jogging suit and playing FIFA on his PlayStation. The doorbell rang. His mother went to answer it. He heard her talking to someone but didn't pay much attention.

"Here is my son, Finn," he heard her say. He looked up and saw his mother with another woman, or rather, a girl. "Finn, this is Sophie, your new babysitter."

Finn's eyes and mouth opened wide. "Wha-a-a…?"

A cold dread washed over him, followed by a surge of hot anger. A babysitter? No. She can't be serious. This is some kind of cruel joke.

"Don't look so surprised," his mother said, her voice a forced calm that did nothing to hide the warning in her eyes. "Be polite. Stand up and introduce yourself. We have a guest."

"What the hell, Mom?!" The words exploded out of him, louder than he intended. "A babysitter?! You didn’t tell me that!" Boy, was he angry. This was betrayal. The ultimate dream of independence, shattered before it even began.

"Watch your language, young man!" Her composure cracked, her voice sharpening. "What were you thinking? That I'd leave my little man all by his lonesome for weeks?" She used the babying tone she knew he despised.

"Uh, yeah?!" he shot back, throwing his hands up in disbelief. "Obviously?! I'm fourteen and a half! I'm not having a fucking babysitter, forget it!" A young adult doesn't need a keeper. He pointedly turned his back on them, jamming the buttons on his controller. The players on screen moved erratically, a perfect mirror of his fraying nerves.

"Finn!"

He heard her quick, angry footsteps cross the room. A shadow fell over him, and before he could react, the controller was snatched from his hands. The screen flashed "PAUSED." Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, firm and unyielding, and she pulled him to his feet. A grip reserved for toddlers in parking lots. The sudden movement made his head spin.

"How are you talking to me?!" she hissed, her face close to his. She lowered her voice, but the intensity only increased. "I just told that young woman what a polite boy you are, that you don't cause me any trouble!"

"Unnecessary," he spat, yanking his arm back, "since I'm not having a babysitter!" He risked a glance at the girl—Sophie—who was standing frozen by the door, looking like she wished the floor would swallow her whole. God, this is so humiliating.

"Finn, what has gotten into you?!" His mother's voice was rising again, filling the room. "You ARE A CHILD! You can't be home alone!" She moved her head toward the girl "He's usually so good about putting his dishes in the dishwasher and making his bed. Don't let this little performance fool you."

"I'm not A CHILD!" he roared, the frustration boiling over. He gestured wildly at himself. "I'm fourteen and a half! A YOUNG ADULT!" Why couldn't she see it? Why did she always have to treat him like a baby?

"You are fourteen, so you ARE A CHILD!" she fired back, matching his volume. "It is not LEGAL to leave you home alone! What kind of mother would I be? I wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing you're here alone for weeks!"

"Mom, please!" A note of desperation crept into his voice. He was pleading now, the anger giving way to a sinking hopelessness. "I'm not little anymore! I can't have a babysitter! Babysitters are for babies!"

"Look at how you're acting right now!" She swept a hand toward him, her expression a mix of fury and utter exasperation. "Like a little, irresponsible child! Instead of introducing yourself like a civilized person, you're making a scene! How embarrassing is this?! Is this the responsible behavior of a 'young adult'? " She finally turned her gaze toward the door, her face flushing with shame. "What must this young woman think of you now?! Who is she going to be babysitting for the next few weeks?!"

The finality in her voice hit him like a physical blow. This wasn't a negotiation. It was a decree. The next few weeks of his life, which he had pictured as a paradise of freedom, had just been handed over to a stranger.

“She's going to be here every day, making sure you do your homework, that you eat something other than chips, and that you're in bed by nine-thirty."

“Maybe…” a new voice cut through the tension, soft but firm. Sophie took a small step forward. “Maybe let me talk to him for a minute?”

Before Finn could object, she was crossing the room, stopping a polite distance away. She was a paradox—close enough to his age to be utterly humiliating, yet carrying herself with a quiet authority that felt unassailable.

“Hello Finn, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Sophie.” She extended her hand. A formal, almost adult gesture. Is she for real? he thought, his mind reeling. She’s… young. And she’s blond, like me. This isn't some granny from down the street. This is a girl. A pretty one. Oh god, that's almost worse.

Reluctantly, he gave her a limp handshake. “I’m Finn,” he muttered, the words tasting like ash.

She gracefully took a seat on the couch, creating an unspoken expectation. After a stubborn second, he sank down beside her, with his mother flanking his other side. He was sitting in the middle, trapped.

“I’m eighteen,” Sophie began, her voice calm and level, as if she were used to defusing bombs. “I just finished my exams. My plan is to study social work.”

Eighteen? The number echoed in his head. That’s only three and a half years. She was just in school herself! How can she possibly be in charge? A fresh wave of panic, different from the hot anger toward his mother, washed over him. This was a specific, social terror. His friends would never understand.

“Okay,” he said, the single word loaded with skepticism. “Sophie, I’m fourteen and a half. I really don’t think I can help you gain experience for a kindergarten. And I simply don’t need a babysitter.” He put a hard emphasis on the last word, a deliberate attempt to wound.

But Sophie just smiled, a light, easy laugh escaping her. “Haha, of course not. And you won't be my only charge. A social worker needs to connect with people of all ages.” She leaned forward slightly, her gaze intent. “And look, we don’t even have to use the word ‘babysitter.’ I can see you’re responsible. But the law is the law. The choice isn't between me and freedom; it's between me and a temporary group home for teens.”

Finn’s stomach dropped. A group home? He pictured a sterile, shared room with strangers. It sounded like a prison. This, at least, was his own apartment.

“If you don’t cause any trouble—and I’m genuinely sure you won’t—then I’m just a friend,” she continued, her tone conspiratorial. “A friend who helps you keep the house running so your mom doesn’t worry. So, what do you think?”

He was disarmed. She was talking to him like a rational person, laying out the cold, hard facts without condescension. She’s good, he admitted grudgingly. She knows exactly what to say.

“Ugh… okay,” he relented, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a weary acceptance. “If there’s no other way… Sure, I won’t cause any trouble. Why would I?” Besides, a new, pragmatic thought whispered, if I have to have a warden, isn't a slightly older girl better than some stern, middle-aged woman who’d actually treat me like a baby? At least Sophie seems… normal.

“Great,” Sophie said, and her smile this time seemed more genuine, reaching her eyes. “I’ll be staying here while your mom is away. And since I have other kids to look after—they come to my place twice a week—you’ll come with me on those days. Consider it a job. You’re a bit older, you don’t want to be ‘babysat,’ so you can help me with the younger ones. We’ll be… co-workers. Does that sound fair?”

Co-workers? The term was so absurd, so unexpectedly respectful, that he almost wanted to laugh. She was offering him a ladder to climb down from his rebellion with his dignity intact.

“Ahem… yeah,” he said, a flicker of interest cutting through his resignation. “That would be okay, I guess. Whatever. I can help.”

“Very well,” Sophie said, her posture relaxing. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, then.”

A tentative smile touched Finn’s lips. Co-workers. It sounds so… official. So respectful. Maybe this won’t be a total disaster after all. Maybe I can actually negotiate some terms—later hours, a bit of extra cash…

“But!”

His mother’s voice was a guillotine, slicing through his fledgling optimism. It was sharp, definitive, and left no room for argument.

“And that’s a big 'but'!” she continued, her eyes pinning him in place. “This ‘friends’ arrangement is conditional. Entirely. I decided it was better for you to have someone young you could relate to, rather than some stern, older woman you’d just rebel against. That was my concession to you. But make no mistake, Finn, Sophie has full authority. Over everything. The rules, the schedule, the grocery money. She will be reporting to me, and if—if—everything goes smoothly, you can earn more freedom. But if Sophie tells you to do something, you do it. If she forbids something, it’s forgotten. I am not kidding.”

She took a step closer, the air between them crackling. “If you give her a single ounce of trouble, the consequences will be immediate. It will either be that temporary group home I mentioned, or you’ll be spending your summer with a professional, experienced babysitter, living in her home surrounded by literal, diaper-wearing babies. The choice, from that point on, will be yours.”

Finn’s eyes widened in genuine alarm. The fragile bridge he’d built with Sophie didn't just shudder; it shattered into a million pieces, swept away by the icy torrent of his mother’s ultimatum. His mind conjured a hellish tableau: a room smelling of talcum powder and sour milk, his only companions screaming infants, his freedom measured in steps from a crib. It was a fate worse than death.

“No, no need for that!” he blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate, undignified rush. “I’ll be good, I swear! A model citizen! A very, very good boy! No worries at all, Mom, seriously.” The promises sounded pathetic and juvenile even to his own ears, undermining his entire "young adult" argument, but the raw terror of his alternatives was a powerful motivator.

“Okay, Finn,” Sophie said, smoothly stepping into the emotional wreckage to reclaim a sense of calm. Her voice was an anchor. “That’s great to hear. Now, maybe you can show me your room? Give us a chance to talk one-on-one.”

“Sure,” he mumbled, desperate for any escape from his mother’s victorious, scrutinizing stare.

He led her down the short hallway, his mind a frantic, racing engine. Full authority? Over money? She’s going to be my warden and my accountant? And reporting on me… God, she’s not a co-worker. She’s a spy. A deeply unsettling, friendly-faced spy who my mother has somehow convinced is a ‘concession’.

“Here it is,” he announced, pushing the door open with a sense of impending doom. The room was a museum of his life: a closet vomiting a cascade of clothes he’d sworn to fold, a single bed with a duvet hastily yanked into place, and a desk dominated by the glowing monolith of his computer setup. It was his sanctuary. Or it had been, until now.

“Oh, I see pictures!” Sophie’s voice was bright with genuine interest as she drifted, like a heat-seeking missile, toward the small collage pinned to the corkboard beside his desk.

Finn’s blood turned to ice water in his veins. No. No, no, no. Not the board. Anywhere but the board. Show her the messy closet, the dusty shelves, anything but the curated gallery of my deepest humiliations.

“What are all of these?” she asked, leaning in, her focus absolute.

“Well, that’s me playing football… and here with my mates after we won a cup…” Finn pointed, his voice tight and strangled. “And some just from holidays, nothing interesting.” He tried to physically usher her attention away, but his feet were rooted to the spot. A familiar, prickling heat began its slow, mortifying ascent up his neck. Please, just look at the football pictures. Be a normal person and look at the normal pictures.

But Sophie’s finger, slender and terrifying, drifted inexorably to the edge of the board, to the section he had long ago mentally labeled The Wall of Shame.

“You must really like swimming. There are so many pictures from the sea,” she observed.

“Yeah…” The word was a croak, caught in the desert of his throat.

Her eyes began their slow, methodical scan. Finn felt the heat on his neck intensify, igniting into a full-blown inferno that spread to the very tips of his ears. Don't see it, don't see it, don't see it, he chanted, a silent, desperate mantra.

First, the one from two summers ago: him at twelve, a collection of ribs and elbows, grinning like an idiot in a ridiculously bright blue speedo. Bad, but survivable. A known quantity of embarrassment.

Then, the world slowed to a crawl. Her gaze paused. It was the one from Rügen. Him, age ten, a blur of pale limbs and pure, unselfconscious joy, captured mid-sprint as he ran buck-naked into the chilly surf. His tiny, childish body was a stark white beacon against the dark water. His private parts. Very small, but undeniably, horrifyingly there. Oh god, she’s looking right at them Finn’s brain screamed, short-circuiting. His grandmother was a laughing blur in the background. His mother had called it "a celebration of childhood freedom." Finn had long ago classified it as "primary evidence for future blackmail."

Time didn't just slow; it stretched into a torturous continuum. He watched Sophie’s eyes trace the outline of the photo. Did her smile tighten at the corners? Did her eyebrows raise a microscopic, knowing millimeter? He was certain she was zooming in on every pixelated, mortifying detail, committing the entire awful tableau to her permanent memory. The silence in the room was no longer an absence of sound, but a physical presence, a dense fog screaming with his humiliation. He wished, with a ferocity that shocked him, that the floor would crack open and swallow him, the photo board, and the entire, cursed concept of family beaches.

Just as the panic was about to crest, drowning him completely, her finger moved on.

"And this one is so sweet," she said, her voice a miracle of neutrality, landing on a safe shot of him at seven, a sand-caked statue clutching a bucket. She had skipped it. She had skipped right over the nuclear option. Had she seen it? She must have seen it. It was right there, in the middle! My naked private parts, on display like a museum exhibit! Why was she not commenting? Was she just being impossibly, painfully polite? Or was this a tactical move—storing it away as psychological ammunition for a future power play?

The tour of terror continued. A shot from a school recital at age 6, him in a sequined vest and bow tie, doing a jazz routine with a look of pure, miserable terror on his face. Finn at age 5, a fluffy, weeping bumblebee for Halloween. “That is so sweet!” Sophie smiled widely. Yeah, sweet indeed – and utterly pathetic Finn thought, the humiliation curdling into self-loathing.

A photo from the beach when he was 5, stark naked, being coaxed by his grandmother to give a little girl a peck on the cheek, his face screwed up in protest. The little girl was obviously clothed. Ugh, at least I was only 5. That’s practically a baby. That’s… almost acceptable. Then, a photo his mom had sneakily taken of him sleeping peacefully around age twelve... while he was drooling profusely onto his pillow, creating a large, visible wet spot. “Hahaha, that’s so cute! Is it difficult for you to wake up?” “I was very tired that day…” he mumbled, wanting to dissolve into the floorboards.

Then came the pièce de résistance: a photo of a two-year-old Finn standing triumphantly in the bathtub, brandishing a rubber ducky, with the unashamed glory of total nudity. “That’s a classic, everyone has these,” commented Sophie, her tone light. Sure, everyone has them stuffed in a dusty album, not framed and hung on the wall for public display! he screamed internally, his cheeks burning as if pressed against a hot stove. And then he saw it: the collage his mom had made. On one side, him at age 4 in the bath. On the other, him at age 6, playfully soaped up. And then at age 8, laughing, all covered in soap, with one small, particular thing pointing all the way up. Pointing up just over her finger. Ugh… Finn cringed, his throat tightening. The caption underneath read, in his mother’s cheerful handwriting, "Some things never change!" Can she stop looking? God, please, make her stop! At least the most recent one is from when I was 8. Small mercies.

“It would be a shame if you didn’t like to swim,” Sophie continued, her voice impossibly normal, as if she hadn't just conducted a forensic examination of his most vulnerable moments. “We have both the Baltic and North Sea so close. I love going there in the summer. I have a feeling we’ll have plenty of occasions to go together.” The statement was now laden with terrifying new meaning.

Her finger journeyed further, past a few more cringe-worthy shots—“Finn the little helper in the garden”—and some mercifully recent pictures from school trips. Then it stopped on one final collage. The Growth Chart Photos: a tradition his mom had enforced until he was 12. At 5, 7, 8, and 9 he was standing completely naked against the height chart in the hallway. The most recent ones, at 10 and 12, showed him rolling his eyes, but at least he was wearing boxers in the first pic and briefs in the other. At least she didn't mention it, he thought, his heart a frantic bird beating against the cage of his ribs. Why do parents do this? It’s a form of psychological torture. They hang your deepest shames on the wall for pretty, eighteen-year-old girls to see and silently judge.

“Okay, very nice,” Sophie said, finally, finally turning her back on the gallery of his horrors. Her eyes did a slow, deliberate sweep of the room—lingering on the erupting closet, the crooked duvet—before returning to his still-scarlet face.

“Well, the photos are lovely,” she said, her tone still pleasant, but with a new, undeniable edge of authority. “And I can see you have your own… system here. But just so we’re clear from the start, part of being responsible is maintaining your space. I’d like this room tidied up before I come back. Clothes put away, bed properly made. Consider it your first official task as my ‘co-worker.’ Understood?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a direct order, delivered with a calm smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The message was crystal clear: the friendly chat was over; the supervision had begun. And she had chosen this moment, when he was at his most emotionally disarmed, to establish it.

“Y-yeah. Understood,” he stammered, the heat in his cheeks intensifying. “I’ll… I’ll get it sorted. Promise.” What else could he say? The girl had just been through his naked photographs; he was completely ashamed, in no position to negotiate.

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page,” she said, her smile warming a fraction, rewarding his compliance. “Alright, I’m going back to your mom. She needs to show me the kitchen and other important things, and we have a contract to sign.” She gave him a small, encouraging smile at the door, a smile that now felt inscrutable. “I’m really looking forward to this, and I’ll see you in two days!”

“Me too! See you,” Finn answered automatically, the polite, robotic lie rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.

As she disappeared down the hall, he closed his door and leaned against it, the silence of his room feeling heavy, charged, and irrevocably different. He slid down to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. He couldn't decide if he was happy or horrified. The co-worker idea was brilliant, but the authority was absolute. Sophie seemed nice, but she was now the keeper of his most embarrassing secrets. It was all so… complicated. The paradise of freedom had vanished, replaced by a gilded cage, its bars woven from his own childhood shame. For now, there was nothing to do but wait, and dread, and see.

The forced tidiness of his room felt like a lie. Every folded shirt in the closet, every smoothed wrinkle on the duvet, was a monument to his newfound powerlessness. He slunk into the kitchen, where the air was already thick with the scent of his mother’s red wine. Sophie was gone, but her presence had seeped into the apartment like a stain.

“So, Finn, what do you think of Sophie? Can you adapt? Tell me now, because if your first impression is an absolute no, I only have two days before I leave. I would need to quickly sign you up somewhere else.” His mom was sipping red wine.

“Ugh… she’s… fine, I guess. But Mom, come on! This is insane! I can be trusted! I’m not going to throw raves or burn the place down!” Finn whined, fidgeting in his chair.

“Honey, I told you already. It’s not even legal. Besides, I would be worried all the time. I need to focus on my career; it’s not all about you, you know?!” She lit a cigarette and took another sip of wine.

“I understand… it’s just…. So terrible!” he mumbled, the words tasting like ash. “So profoundly, cosmically humiliating.”

“I know, honey, but you are still a little boy, regardless of what you might think of yourself, and the law is the law. So, what do you think of Sophie? And I mean it, Finn, be honest!” His mom was very modern and progressive, still young, but she took no nonsense. Honesty was paramount to her. They talked daily about everything and were remarkably open with each other.

“She seems fair and professional. It’s just strange she is only three and a half years older than me. She’s practically my peer! Three and a half years? It’s nothing! But I guess you are right, that’s better than an old lady. I can get along with her, probably. Like she said herself. It’s just… something I was not expecting to happen today, you know? I was sure I was staying alone.”

“Yeah, you just need to let that sink in.”

“Yeah, I’ll have to. But… ugh, Mom, what if she is all bossy and uncool? Tell her, tell her explicitly I don’t need a real babysitter!”

“Why would she do that? Finn, don’t panic. We had that conversation with her. She wants to go easy on you, to be more like a friend. I talked to her before; it’s not like I found someone just today. I am responsible for your upbringing, and you know I’m a modern parent; we do things our own way. So why would I send you some conservative, strict, and religious woman?”

“Okay, I hope you are right... but you said yourself she has full authority. And that I can earn more freedom.”

“Yes, and are you planning to make it difficult for yourself?”

“No! Definitely not, Mom! But, why? It’s not like you are very strict.” She raised an eyebrow. “I mean, you know exactly what I mean. You are not like other parents.”

“Sure I’m not, but I have full authority here as well.”

“Yeah, sure, you have! But it’s not like you need to use it a lot.”

“I don’t need to, that’s right. But I have it. I just raised you well, that’s why I have the luxury of being relaxed. But I think you know very well what happens if you misbehave.”

A cold shiver ran down his spine. He did know. “Right. Let’s not revisit past… incidents. I’m a model citizen.”

“Usually. That’s why we talked about authority. It’s a new situation for you and for me as well. I don’t want you to go all crazy and cause bullshit just because I’m away for a few weeks. We don’t know how it will go because it’s new. So, it was important for me, but for Sophie too, to make sure she has the authority and that you need to earn trust first. I think that’s fair. She is taking on huge responsibility for you.”

“I won’t go all bullshit, Mom…”

“I hope you won’t. If you do, she will inform me.” She stubbed out her cigarette and beckoned him closer. “Come here.”

He obeyed, the wooden chair legs scraping a protest against the floor. She took both his hands in hers, her grip firm.

“Finn, you are so full of yourself lately, but be honest with yourself: you are still a little boy. That starts with your morning routine; how many times do I have to wake you up? You know that picture in your room of you sleeping and drooling onto your pillow?”

“Don’t,” he shuddered at the thought of those photos and Sophie seeing them.

“It is cute, that’s why it’s there. But the uncomfortable truth is that the core issue remains unchanged. A real young adult can wake up by himself. And that’s just one example; you know there are plenty of others where you still act like a little boy.”

“Okay, Mom! I capitulate! Please, no more evidence!” He wanted to melt into the floor.

“Don’t be embarrassed, we talk about everything! So, if you do your best, I’m sure you will get more freedom quickly. I want that for you and for us all too! Okay? Come on, give me a hug. I’m leaving soon.”

She stood, pulling him into a hug. “Now, promise me. Promise you’ll be a good, brave, polite, and exemplary little boy for me.”

He stiffened in her arms. “Mom, stop that! I’m not a little boy!”

“I think we really need to go through all your behavior.”

“No! Alright, I’ll be a polite and good…. Ahem… little boy,” he spoke, a little embarrassed.

“Very good!” She kissed his forehead. “I’m sure I’ll be proud of you.” She looked him in the eyes. “Okay, now I want my little boy to go to his room; I want to relax alone.” As he turned, her hand landed a playful, stinging smack on his backside. He jumped, yelping in surprise and indignation. “Now, disappear.”

He went to his room quietly. When his mother wanted to “relax alone,” it usually meant she would drink wine and smoke cannabis. When Finn stayed in the room while she was smoking, he would get sleepy and fall asleep on the couch. She had no strength to carry him to his bed, especially now that he was over fourteen. So she would rather send him away.

Alone in the sanctum of his room, the silence was deafening. His eyes were drawn, as if by a malevolent force, to the Wall of Shame. In the company of his friends, the photos were just dumb jokes, a collective gallery of shared, childish absurdity. They would usually make a joke or two, but it was just boys; they saw each other naked here and there anyway. But never before had a girl—except for his mom or grandma, of course—seen them. He felt ashamed but also kind of… excited? An eighteen-year-old girl had been in his room, studying his pictures, seeing his naked body. She had scanned the entire timeline of his physical development, from a chubby, naked toddler to a gawky pre-teen in a speedo. She had seen the most private, hidden parts of him, frozen in time for her appraisal. His mind screeched to a halt on the worst one—the Rügen photo. He could feel her eyes on it again, tracing the pale line of his ten-year-old body, the tiny, indistinct blur of his prepubescent penis on full display for the Baltic Sea and now for her. What was she thinking? She was very professional. Maybe nothing? Maybe everything. She was probably laughing inside. She was definitely thinking, 'Oh, what a harmless little child.'

A treacherous heat, entirely separate from shame, began to uncoil in his stomach. His penis gave a sudden, unmistakable twitch. No. No, no, no. What is wrong with me? He grabbed two fistfuls of his hair, pulling hard, as if he could physically yank the thought from his brain. She was his warden, his babysitter, his mother’s spy. He felt another tiny, pathetic movement in his boxers.

He turned on the light, forcing himself to look at the wall, the evidence of his humiliation. That’s so embarrassing. She just saw the whole of me, and now she is supposed to be my babysitter. His gaze fixed on the bathtub picture from when he was eight, covered in soap, his penis a tiny, innocent arrow pointing skyward. How embarrassing. He looked down at himself now. Despite the turmoil, the confusion, the shame, it was pointing in the exact same way. He was feeling embarrassed, excited, and utterly, profoundly lost. Sleep would be a long time coming.

The next two days went quickly. Mom was in full packing mode, hugging Finn here and there more often than usual, telling him how much she would miss him and didn’t want to leave him alone. You aren't leaving me alone, Mom, Finn thought each time, a fresh wave of resentment washing over him. You are leaving me with a BABY-SITTER! Thanks for ruining my life! Each time, he rolled his eyes, hoping the gesture could convey the depth of his betrayal.

Mom had an evening flight, so Sophie came in the afternoon. She had two suitcases, and at first, they kind of switched rooms: Mom took her suitcase out, and Sophie unpacked hers. Then it was time to hand me over, he thought bitterly.

First, Mom pressed him to herself, and her tears started falling. “I love you so much!” she began. “I’m so sorry for leaving you alone! Ohh,” she cried and cried. “I’m such a terrible mother, leaving my little boy alone!”

Sure, call me 'little boy' in front of Sophie.

“Sorry, Sophie, it’s the first time I’m leaving my little boy for such a long time!”

Oh great, say it again.

“Mom, it’s all good, you’ll miss your flight.”

“Then at least I won’t have to leave my little boy alone!” she cried out louder.

Oh god, someone stop her.

“Mom, I’ll be fine, there’s a car waiting for you!”

“Oh right, oh right.” She kissed his forehead. “Just promise me you will be a good boy for Sophie and not cause any trouble! Remember, if you need to talk to me, call me anytime! Even in the evening, don’t hesitate! Promise you will!”

“Okay, okay, I promise!”

“That you will be a good boy and you will call me?”

“Yes, Mom, I’ll be a good little boy and I promise to call and text you!”

Perfect, now I added the word “little” by myself.

“Okay, okay, but if I’m on a date, I’ll call you back as soon as I can!”

Mom was being Mom, probably completely high now.

“Okay, alright.” She gave him another kiss. “You can go to Sophie now, be good!” and slapped his bottom playfully. He jumped and rolled his eyes.

Great, the spank. In front of HER!

“So, Finn. I hope you won’t cry?” Sophie asked, smirking.

“Very funny.”

“I’m just kidding. Moms are always like that. She just loves you. Anyway, it’s our first evening. How do you feel about pizza and a movie?”

“Alright. How about a scary movie?”

Take that. A scary movie. An adult choice.

“Fine, just remember there’s no mom to comfort you if you get scared!”

“Ha, ha, ha. I’ll manage.”

“Are you always so serious?” She handed him her iPhone. “Here, that’s the delivery app. Choose what pizza you like.”

He chose a margherita with extra onions.

“Okay, great. So, until the pizza is delivered, you could go take a shower and put your pajamas on. That way you’ll be ready for the movie and bed later, you know.”

Oh great, here it is. The first command.

“Oh, look, Sophie, it’s ok. You don’t need to tell me when I should shower. I know that. And don’t worry, I won’t forget.”

“I don’t know about that, so firstly we’ll have to see.”

“But I am telling you. Look, I know you babysit some toddlers, but I’m a big boy. I know when I need to take a shower.”

‘Big boy.’ I sound like a five-year-old claiming he can tie his own shoes.

“Sure, but I want to have a structure. After the movie, I want you to go to bed and not run around. I’ll be here every day; I’ll need some space in the evening for myself. So that’s how it works – the adult sends the child to bed.”

“Yes, but I’m not a child, and we were supposed to become friends.”

“Oh, you are a child, that’s why I’m here. And about the friends, I explained it to you – you will need to prove you can be trusted and treated like an adult. We talked about that. You can gain some freedom. Maybe one day I won’t have to tell you to take a shower. But right now, you are far away from that, making a scene on the first day? You just promised your mother that you would be a good little boy. So, be one – I want to see you showered and in your pajamas when the pizza arrives.”

I have no ground to stand on. Every protest just proves her point. I am a child having a tantrum.

Finn put his head down and turned, the weight of his defeat crushing him.

“Ah, Finn!” Sophie called him before he had taken a second step.

“Yes?”

“Please don’t turn around like an offended child. I really despise it.”

“Hmm. Ok. Sorry.”

“Are you going to shower and put your pajamas on or not?”

“Yeeeeeees, I am.”

The whiniest, most childish ‘yes’ in human history.

“So you don’t just turn around; you are too big for that. I think at your age you can say something like, ‘Okay Sophie, sorry for that, you are right. I’ll go take a shower and put my pajamas on.’”

Finn took a deep breath and forced himself to say it.

“Sophie, I’m sorry for misbehaving. I’ll now go grab my sleepwear and jump directly into the shower!” Finn answered, letting a bit of irony slip into his tone.

“Great. And I guess, after that, you will be a polite little boy, not making any more trouble?”

“Yes, I will….”

“You will what?”

His throat was getting tighter and tighter. He was getting redder and redder.

“I’ll be a good…. Ekhm…. Little boy… who’s not making any more trouble.”

There. I said it.

“Great! See you later then!”

Finn ran into his room. It started horribly! Already! – he thought to himself. He usually slept in his underwear, but he looked through his drawers for some pajama bottoms. First, because she had clearly said ‘pajamas’, and he didn’t want to have another argument. Secondly, he didn’t want to parade in front of a girl in just his underpants. He grabbed navy blue pajama shorts and a white t-shirt and went directly to the bathroom.

While he was showering, he couldn’t stop thinking about the terrible situation he found himself in. There is an eighteen-year-old girl bossing me around. I'm already fourteen and a half! That’s ridiculous. I know when to bathe, when to go to sleep. Not even Mom is this strict. Maybe I’ll just do as she says and I’ll get some freedom in the end. That’s just so embarrassing. If the boys find out! I’ll kill and bury myself.

That’s when he heard the bathroom door open.

“Finn! How long are you going to take?! The pizza is already here; it came super quickly!”

“I’ll hurry up, Sophie!”

Oh my god, she just came in! Did she see me?! The glass is translucent, she saw me! Definitely my bare behind! Why would she just come inside?! That’s private!

With that, the unpredictable happened again. His penis was pointing skyward like a tiny exclamation point. Within a second. How?! Why?!

What if she comes in again and sees that?! He started to panic. He almost never got spontaneous erections, except maybe in his sleep. He looked at himself. He was all soaped up, looking just like in that infamous picture. She can’t see me like that! He turned the water cold, very cold, and started jumping. Quickly, quickly, go away, you traitor! The water felt like a thousand needles piercing his body, and indeed, it helped. As soon as it had come, it was gone. He dried himself with a towel in record time. He looked in the mirror; he was all shaky, his genitals shrunken to their smallest size. Very good, he thought and quickly put his pajama bottoms on.

“I’m coming, Sophie!” he called out, his voice a hollow echo of the boy he was just two hours ago. The war was lost. This was just the first day.

He came quickly into the living room, panting with exhaustion. She was already sitting there on the couch, pizzas on the table. She looked at him and smiled widely “Great, come on, sit down”

Finn sat down next to her on the couch, feeling uncomfortable in his own flat.

“So which horror would you like to watch today?” she handed him the remote.

“I don’t know, something from Netflix”

As he was switching from movie to movie, Sophie opened him an orange juice, and herself a beer. Great, when she is with her real friends, they all probably drink just beer. Finally he chose a movie about zombies.

They were watching, eating pizza, commenting characters and the plot. It was not all that bad, thought Finn. He got really scared once, literally jumping on the couch, almost splitting the orange juice on himself. Sophie caught his hand in the last second. Only a few drops landed on the floor.

“Wow, that was an action!”

Finn got red again, finding it embarrassing to be scared watching a horror movie in front of her. But she brought him back to reality, saying “but you are not too scared to the kitchen and bring some paper towel? There are no zombies, trust me”

“I’m not scared of zombies, that action just surprised me!” he stood up, feeling offended, got the towels and cleaned the floor.

After twenty minutes, the same thing happened. He jumped and got all scared.

“Haha, oooooh, we will watch the comedy next time!”

“Stop it, I’m not scared! I just didn’t expect that to happen!”

She hugged him gently and rubbed his shoulder “don’t worry, I’m just kidding”. Her touch was warm, her voice calming. He hated the fact that she was here. Calming him down like he needed a baby-sitter. As she was rubbing his shoulder, he felt that, again. No, no, not now, please, god, oh no, please. His penis twitched. And twitched. Until it pointed all way up. Pushing against his loose pajama bottoms. Finn quickly changed his position, he raised his knees and rested his hands on them. In that position, his erection was not visible. Oh god, what now, what I do now?! It’s living it’s on life lately!

He waited 5 minutes sitting like that not to make any suspicions. Then he informed “I’ll go to toilet quickly”. After Sophie’s “sure”, he stood up simultaneously turning himself to the door, making it impossible for her to notice the obvious tent.

Once in the toilet, he was panicking further. He looked down and said quietly “what’s wrong with you?! Go down now”. He started jumping, but it was not really helping. He turned the cold water in the sink and tried to cool it down. After a minute of cold water steam, his penis gave up. Finally. He put his pants back on and came back to the room.

“You didn’t miss anything, don’t worry.” Said Sophie as he entered the room. As if that was worrying him now. He came closer to sit down. “Wait, what are these wet spots? Finn, I thought you are a big boy, that’s not hygienic, you need to shake it out thoroughly, I would have paused the movie if I knew you were in hurry.”

Jesus Christ, I was not even peeing. If she knew how much I was just fighting.

“Ekhm… you know, the last two drops…”

“Please, take care of that next time.” He sat down and said nothing more.

God, know she thinks I need her help with using the toilet. Just when I said she was not that bad.

Another half an hour went smoothly and the movie got to an end. There were no more scary actions, so nothing embarrassing happened.

“Alright, mister, please go brush your teeth now and straight to bed.”

Finn rolled his eyes but said nothing, he stood up. Whatever, I’ll just watch some tiktoks and talk to friends. – he thought.

As he was about to leave the room, he heard “Finn! Wait”

He turned to her, wondering what was it now she wanted from him.

“I almost forgot, sorry. Please bring me your cellphone”

His eyes opened so wide they almost fell out. Is she reading my mind now?!

“B… but… Sophie!! I’m… “

“No buts, just bring it.”

“But I’m fourteen and a half! You don’t need to control my iPhone!”

“I’m not going to control it, I just don’t want you to play with it instead of sleeping. So, please, bring it.”

“But… seriously, I’m fourt…”

“So what? Don’t you have school tomorrow? We went through that already, do you want me to explain it to you again? I thought you are a big boy who understands.”

“Yes I am but..”

“Look, ok, I’ll explain. I don’t know you. You will probably lay in bed playing with it, and I’ll have a big war to get you out of bed tomorrow. Or you will fall asleep during classes and your mom will blame me. So no. No way. “

“Ohhhhhhh coooome ooooon!” he was literally whining.

“No whining, you told me you’ll be a polite little boy in the evening, and you are throwing a tundum for a second time again. Set the alarm and bring me the cellphone.”

“But how am I going to wake up without it? The alarm brings nothing if I don’t have my iphone”

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll check on you later. To make sure you really sleep and don’t do anything else. When I’ll see you sleep, I’ll put it next to your bed.”

“Ohhh…. “ he wanted to discuss further, but then he saw her eyes. “Alright, sure thing, sophie, I’ll be right back with my iphone…”

He set up the alarm at 6:30 am and handed it to her. It was 9:30 pm. Just 9:30. How am I even going to fall asleep. Impossible.

“Goodnight.” She said, warmly.

“Goodnight you too.” He answered. And went to his room. To his bed. He didn’t want to risk playing on laptop or doing anything else.

He didn’t want to risk playing on his laptop or doing anything else. The sheer injustice of it all burned in his chest. 9:30. It’s like I’m in prison. He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of Sophie moving around in the living room. The flat felt different with her in it. Occupied. Watched.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the day's emotional rollercoaster pulled him under.

He was in his own street, but it was deserted and silent. A fog clung to the ground. From the end of the road, a low moan echoed. Then another. He saw them then—shambling, distorted figures emerging from the mist. Zombies. But they had the faces of kids from his school, their eyes blank, mouths hanging open. They started running towards him, faster than any movie zombie. He turned to flee, but his feet were stuck in concrete. He looked down and saw he was standing in the large, visible wet spot from his drooling photo. The zombies were almost on him, their cold hands reaching—

A scream tore from his throat, raw and terrified. He jolted upright in bed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The room was dark, but a sliver of light from the hallway fell across his bed.

Then the door flew open, backlighting the figure of Sophie. The main light flicked on, a brutal, unforgiving assault.

“Finn? What’s wrong?” Her voice was slurry with sleep. She stood there in shorts and a thin t-shirt, her hair a messy halo, her usual polished composure sanded away. For a fleeting second, she just looked like a girl. Then the reality crashed back in.

He was gasping, sucking in air that felt too thin. The phantom sensation of cold, dead fingers still brushed his skin.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” she murmured, her voice shifting into that infuriatingly gentle, maternal register. She sat on the edge of his bed, her weight causing the mattress to dip, tilting him towards her. “A nightmare? From the movie?”

He could only manage a jerky nod, his throat locked tight with a cocktail of fear and shame. A nightmare. I screamed like a toddler who saw a monster in the closet. This can't be happening.

“Oh, Finn.” Her hand was cool as it pressed against his feverish forehead, sweeping his damp hair back. The gesture was so intimate, so proprietary, it made his skin crawl. “It’s over. You’re safe. There are no zombies here. It was just a dream.”

“I… I’m fine,” he croaked, flinching away from her touch. The part of him that had been soothed by it was a traitor. “You can go.”

Her eyes scanned his face, reading the humiliation etched there as clearly as text. “Are you sure? I can stay for a minute. Until you settle.”

“No!” The word shot out, too loud, too sharp. He was betraying his own panic. “I mean… no. I’m fine. Really. It was… stupid.”

She gave him a small, tired smile. “Nightmares aren’t stupid. But okay.” She stood up and, just as she had promised earlier, placed his iPhone silently on his bedside table.

He just nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Goodnight, Finn,” she said softly from the door before turning off the light and closing it, leaving him in the dark once more.

He collapsed onto his pillows, the adrenaline receding and leaving a vast, empty plain of sheer, unadulterated mortification in its wake. She had to come in here. She had to witness that. She touched my head like I'm a sick infant she's nursing back to health. A low, guttural groan escaped him as he yanked the duvet over his head, trying to smother himselfhe was now accepting aid and comfort from the enemy.

The sharp, insistent beeping of his iPhone alarm sliced through the fog of his sleep. It felt like it had only been minutes since he’d finally fallen back asleep, his mind exhausted from the nightmares and the shame. A groan escaped his lips as he flailed a hand towards the bedside table, his movements clumsy with fatigue. His fingers fumbled across the screen, swiping blindly until the blessed silence returned.

Just five more minutes, his brain begged, a pathetic, wheedling plea. That’s all I need. Just a few more moments of oblivion…

The next thing he knew, the room was filled with a different kind of light—the harsh, unforgiving light of morning. The door to his room was open.

"Finn. Time to get up."

Sophie’s voice was like a scalpel, clean and precise, slicing through the comforting layers of sleep. He pried one eye open. She stood there, fully dressed in jeans and a sweater, her hair perfectly styled, her face a mask of infuriating, well-rested competence.

He grunted in response, burying his face back into the pillow. It smelled like sleep and despair.

"That wasn't a suggestion," she said, her voice closer now. She was at the foot of his bed. "I let you sleep an extra fifteen minutes, but that's all you get. You need to get ready for school."

The word "school" sent a jolt of panic through him. He blinked, his vision blurry. "Wha... what time is it?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she sat on the bed, the springs complaining under her weight. The intimacy of it was a shock.

"It's 6:45. You missed your alarm." She reached out her hand and stroked his hair.

"I... I didn't hear it," he mumbled.

"I did. It went off right on time. I heard you turn it off," she stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. Her fingers never stopped their slow, rhythmic stroking. “The question is, are you getting up now, or do we need to discuss consequences?”

“Right this instant, Sophie,” he said, his body tensing, but making no move to actually do it. The conflict was paralyzing.

She just continued the gentle petting, as if calming a skittish animal. It felt nice. She crossed her legs, sat down more comfortably and started looking around the room. . He watched in frozen horror as her eyes landed on the corkboard with the infamous pictures. She was silent for a long moment, her hand a persistent, soothing, maddening presence on his head.

“The Growth Chart Photos,” she said, her voice conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. Finn’s blood ran cold. “The recent measurement is missing? The last one was taken when you were twelve.” She turned her head to him, smiling, her fingers still tracing lazy circles near his temple. 

She's touching me and looking at my naked childhood pictures. This is a new circle of hell.

“Yhhhh-yeeeah,” he stammered, the sound strangled. “I’m. You know. Too old for that… stuff now.”

Her eyes returned to the board, narrowing slightly in assessment.

“And that one in the bath,” she mused, her voice light. “The soaped-up one.”

Oh, God. Why is she doing this? I’m awake! I’m capitulating! Please, just leave! His mind was screaming, a frantic, internal siren. She was looking at these pictures and stroking his hair. His penis reacted to that instantly. Again. Like in that picture.

“Yeeah! Too old for that one, too!” he squeaked, his voice cracking under the pressure.

“Is that your mom’s opinion,” she asked, her gaze still on the photo, her fingers still in his hair, “or yours?”

“Both! It’s both of us!” he insisted, desperate to end this line of inquiry.

“Aah. I see.” She finally turned to look directly at him, her hand pausing. “Alright then. Up you get.”

He couldn’t. It was a physical impossibility. The tent in his pajama bottoms would be a flag announcing his utter depravity. “Sophie, I swear to God, I’ll be up in five minutes. I just… need a second. Really.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, her tone dripping with indulgent disbelief. She gave his hair one final, patronizing ruffle and stood up. “I’ll use that time to pick out your clothes.” She moved toward his wardrobe with a dreadful purpose.

“I’ll—I can do that myself later!” he protested, his voice tight, only his eyes visible above the duvet.

She glanced back, her smile sharp. “‘Later’ is a synonym for ‘late for school’.” She turned back and opened the wardrobe door.

He watched, helpless, as she perused his life. She flicked through his t-shirts. “That’s a nice one,” she declared, pulling out a dark green one. “It will go nicely with black shorts or jeans… here, these are good. Nice clothes you have!” she admitted, as she selected dark jean shorts. “Now, some socks…” she opened the first drawer. “Oh, they are all the same, easy.” All he wore were white, tennis Nike socks. “Aaaand you will need some undies, obviously”. Finn almost fainted as he heard that. Sophie opened the second drawer.

Finn felt the world tilt. No. No, no, no. That’s the line. You don’t cross that line.

Sophie opened the second drawer—the sanctum sanctorum—and without a hint of hesitation, picked up a folded pair of black boxer briefs. She unfolded them meticulously, holding them up by the waistband. She examined them like a detective at a crime scene, her eyes scanning the fabric. Then, she found it.

“Look,” she said, her voice flat. She pinched the crotch of the underwear, pulling the fabric taut to reveal a small, but undeniable hole. She held it up for him to see, a public exhibit of his private decay. “There’s a hole here.”

“Oh..” he just mumbled.

What is she doing?! Why is she looking over my underwear?! Oh my god. I am going to spontaneously combust. Right here, right now. He thought, his penis pointing straight up like never before.

“You need to get rid of them.” With that, she unceremoniously threw them in the rubbish bin under his desk. She reached for another pair. These she unfolded with the same detached scrutiny. They were a pair of grey briefs. The briefs.

Oh god, how embarrassing. She is going through my underwear drawer. And she took the briefs!

He was almost not wearing briefs anymore. They were not uncommon in Germany, but kind of out of fashion and often seen as childish. Since he was fourteen and a half now, he was switching to boxers. He had maybe four pairs left he wore rarely.

She held them up, stretched between her two hands, inspecting the seams, the elastic. He could feel his erection, now fully formed and throbbing with a mind of its own, press insistently against the confines of his pajamas. It was a brutal, physiological irony.

“They seem okay. You can wear them,” she placed them neatly on top of the small pile of clothes she had assembled for him. His penis was twitching and he had strange sensations in his stomach. A fresh wave of heat engulfed him. Of all the boxers in that drawer, she pulls out the briefs. She’s doing this on purpose. She has to be.

Sophie gave a single, curt nod. "Good. I'm making eggs. You have five minutes to be dressed and at the table." With that, she turned and left, leaving his door wide open.

The moment she was gone, he erupted from the bed. Move, move, move!

He ripped off his pajamas, his movements frantic. He snatched the briefs from the pile. The tight, confining cotton was, for once, a blessing.

It’s actually good they’re my old briefs. They are so tight, they hide that twitching erection very well.

Fully clothed in under sixty seconds, he stood trembling in the middle of his room. He was dressed, but he felt more exposed than ever. Taking a shaky breath, he walked toward the kitchen to face his warden, his babysitter, his tormentor, and the maker of his eggs.

The breakfast table was a silent battleground. Sophie had made scrambled eggs that were objectively perfect—fluffy, perfectly seasoned, a world away from his mother’s often-rubbery attempts. But each mouthful tasted like sawdust and submission.

“Sleep okay?” Sophie asked, her voice breezy as she sipped her coffee. She was acting as if the previous night’s scream-fest and this morning’s underwear inquisition had never happened.

Finn grunted, a non-committal sound he hoped conveyed both ‘I’m fine’ and ‘please stop talking to me’. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, tracing the pattern with his fork.

“Big day at school?” she tried again.

“It’s school,” he mumbled, the universal teenager code for ‘it’s a soul-crushing prison of boredom and social anxiety, but I’d still rather be there than here with you’.

She seemed to accept this, turning her attention to her phone. The silence that followed was somehow worse, thick with everything left unsaid. Every second was a reminder of the new, awful normal. This is my life now. Eating eggs with my warden.

When he finally finished, he practically fled the table, muttering, “Gonna brush my teeth.”

The bathroom felt like a sanctuary, the first private moment he’d had since she’d arrived. He closed the door, leaned against the cool wood for a second, and exhaled a breath he felt like he’d been holding all morning. Okay. Just breathe. You can get through this.

He squeezed toothpaste onto his brush, but the pressure in his bladder was more urgent. Piss first. It was a simple, mundane act. A moment of pure biological function. A moment where, for a few seconds, no one could tell him what to do.

He unbuttoned his shorts and, out of a habit ingrained since childhood, pushed them and his underwear down to his thighs. It was his method. Maximum clearance. Zero risk of wet underwear. He positioned himself, his penis between his thumb and index finger, and let go with a sigh of relief.

The door swung open.

He froze mid-stream, his body locking in sheer, unadulterated terror. His heart didn't just skip a beat; it seemed to vacate his chest entirely.

“You left your pajamas on the floor,” Sophie’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if she’d walked in on him reading a book. He heard the rustle of fabric as she scooped them up. He didn’t dare turn his head. He couldn’t move.

His mind, for a single, crystalline second, took a snapshot of the scene: him, pants around his thighs, pale buttocks facing the door, the unmistakable sound of urination filling the small room. And her, standing there, watching.

She’s seeing this. She’s seeing me. My bare ass. Right now. The thought was a nuclear bomb detonating in his brain.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic. And then, he felt it. A strange, unwelcome twitch, a sudden, tight fullness that had nothing to do with his bladder. It was that same confusing feeling from before, the one he couldn't control. A surge of blood, a stubborn stiffness starting to form.

How long is she going to stand there?

His urine stream, once steady, now faltered. His body was working against itself, the new, confusing sensation making it impossible to relax the muscles needed to finish. He was stuck in a horrible limbo—desperately needing to empty his bladder but physically unable to because of this…

He heard the soft thump of the pajamas landing in the laundry basket. He expected a gasp, a sharp intake of breath, an apology, a hurried retreat. Anything.

There was nothing. Just a beat of silence, heavy and judgmental. Then, the soft pad of her footsteps as she turned and walked out. The door didn’t even close fully, leaving it ajar by a few inches—a final, casual violation.

The moment she was gone, the tension broke, but the damage was done. A shudder wracked his frame. He tried to will himself to finish, but his body was a confused knot of signals. He was left with the uncomfortable, incomplete feeling of a bladder not fully emptied, a dull, nagging pressure alongside the lingering, embarrassing stiffness.

I’ll finish later, in school.

He yanked his briefs and pants up. The rough cotton of the briefs scraped against his sensitive flesh. He fumbled with the button, his fingers trembling.

He didn't look in the mirror. He stood there, gripping the sink, his mind a whirlpool of shame and confusion. She saw my naked butt. She just saw my naked butt. The phrase looped in his head, stupid and simple, yet containing a universe of shame. She didn't scream. She didn't even act surprised. She just… collected the laundry. It was the mundane normalcy of her actions that made it a thousand times worse. To her, his most private moment was just part of the chores. He wasn't a young man whose privacy had been violated; he was a child who had left a mess on the floor.

And my body… why does it do that? What is wrong with me?

He brushed his teeth, said goodbye, and quickly left for school. He needed to visit the toilet before lessons started; he didn’t dare try again at home, even though he had returned to his standard smallness.

The school bathroom was a haven of anonymous, grimy tile. Finn ducked into a stall, the bolt sliding home with a satisfyingly final thunk. Finally, true privacy. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the partition, the events of the morning crashing over him again in a wave of fresh heat. She saw everything.

Shaking his head to dislodge the image, he focused on the task at hand. He quickly unbuttoned his shorts, let them fall to the floor together with his briefs, and finished what he had started at home. The relief was profound, a small but significant reclamation of control.

He emerged from the stall just as his friends, Noah and Luca, were piling their backpacks by the sinks.

"Finn! There you are," Luca said, punching him lightly on the arm. "We heard. Spill it."

Finn’s heart did a little stutter. "Heard what?"

"About the girl!" Noah chimed in, his eyes wide with gossip-fueled excitement. "Your mom's gone, and you've got some random girl living with you? My mom was talking to your mom or something. Is it true?"

A strange, dual sensation twisted in Finn's gut. The shame of the truth warred with a sudden, desperate urge to seize this narrative.

"Yeah," Finn said, trying to sound casual as he washed his hands. "It's true."

"What's she like?" Luca pressed, leaning in. "Is she some old, boring hag?"

This was his chance. This was where he could turn his humiliation into something enviable. He turned off the tap and faced them, a carefully crafted smirk on his face.

"Nah, man. Not even close. She's... eighteen. Just finished school."

The effect was instantaneous. Noah and Luca stared, their jaws practically hitting the floor.

"Eighteen?" Noah breathed, the word full of reverence. "Dude. You're joking."

"No joke," Finn said, puffing his chest out just a little. He leaned against the sink, crossing his arms. "She's, you know. Blond. Tall."

"You are the luckiest guy in the world," Luca declared, shaking his head in disbelief. "My mom is breathing down my neck all the time. Yours leaves, and you get a hot university student as a replacement? What does she even do all day?"

Finn leaned into the fantasy, building the lie brick by brick. It felt good. It felt like power.

"Not much, really. She cleans up, I guess. Makes food. Does my laundry." He shrugged, as if having a personal live-in maid was the most normal thing in the world. "It's pretty chill. Better than having a mom around, that's for sure."

"That is so sick," Noah said, a dreamy look on his face. "I'd kill for that. A hot girl just... cooking for you. That's the dream."

"The dream," Finn echoed, the words feeling like ash in his mouth even as he smiled.

The bell rang, shattering the moment. As they grabbed their bags and filed out into the hallway, Luca slung an arm around Finn's shoulders.

"Seriously, man. You've got it made. No parents, a hot babysitter...!"

“Not a babysitter,” Finn corrected quickly, the word like a poison dart. “She’s more like a maid, you know.”

“Duuuude, you're living the life!”

Finn forced a laugh, the sound echoing hollowly in the crowded corridor. "Yeah," he said, the lie now a heavy cloak on his shoulders. "Yeah, I guess I am."

He walked to class, the echo of his friends' envy a stark contrast to the memory of Sophie's calm, assessing eyes and the sound of his pajamas hitting the laundry basket. He had successfully convinced them he was the coolest guy in school. Now, if only he could convince himself.

The final bell was a jailbreak siren. Finn shouldered his backpack, the weight of the school day feeling lighter than the weight of the "cool live-in maid" lie he'd been carrying. He pushed through the main doors into the afternoon sun, scanning for Noah and Luca.

And then he saw her.

Leaning against a sleek, dark blue car parked conspicuously close to the school gates was Sophie. She was wearing sunglasses, one foot crossed over the other, scrolling through her phone. She looked impossibly cool, like a model in an ad for a life Finn wasn't living.

A bolt of pure, undiluted terror shot through him. No. No, no, no. What is she doing HERE?

His mind screamed a single, panicked thought: If she bosses me around now, if she uses that babysitter tone, it's over. Everyone will know. They'll know I'm a little kid with a keeper. The lie is over.

Before he could vanish, his friends spotted her. "Whoa. Who's that?" Luca asked, already impressed.

Panic tightened Finn's throat. This was the moment his social life would explode.

But then Sophie looked up, pushed her sunglasses onto her head, and offered a warm, easy smile. "Hey, Finn! Over here!" Her tone was friendly. Casual. Not a shred of authority.

A flicker of hope.

He trudged forward, his heart still hammering.

"Hey, Sophie," he mumbled. "What's up?"

"Grocery run," she said, her tone breezy. She then turned her smile to his friends. "Hey, you guys must be the crew. I'm Sophie."

She stuck her hand out. She stuck her hand out. They shook it, looking star-struck.

"Finn's told me he hangs with a good group," she said, a masterful, friendly assumption that made Finn's lie feel like truth. It was a guess, but a perfect one.

"He has, has he?" Luca said, shooting Finn a look of newfound respect.

"All good things, I hope," Sophie laughed, a light, musical sound. "Anyway, just wanted to see the famous school. And to see if you guys were giving him a hard time."

"Us? Never," Noah said, grinning.

"Good. Because he's a good guy," Sophie said, and she placed a casual hand on Finn's shoulder. It wasn't a command; it was a show of solidarity. "Alright, I'm kidnapping him. We need to get food. It was nice to meet you!"

"You too!" they chimed.

As Sophie slid into the driver's seat, Finn's phone began to buzz. He got into the car, the door closing on the best moment of his life.

He pulled out his phone.

Luca: DUDE.

Noah: YOU DIDNT TELL US SHE WAS A GODDESS

Luca: Shes so fit!!!

Noah: And shes so chill??? She came to pick you up!

Luca: Dude shes perfect. You HAVE to make a move.

Noah: For real. If you dont you're insane.

Luca: I would literally let her babysit me ANY day

Noah: <Drooling Face emoji> x3

Luca: U r the luckiest guy alive. No cap.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across Finn's face. The initial terror was gone, replaced by a soaring, giddy victory. He had done it. He hadn't just maintained the lie; he had perfected it. Sophie, his warden, had become his ultimate social trophy. He looked at her profile as she drove, no longer seeing the enemy, but the key to his newfound status.

"Nice friends," she said, glancing at him.

"Yeah," Finn said, his voice now confident, almost smug. "They're the best."

He leaned back in his seat, the envy of his friends a warm, satisfying glow in his chest. He had won.

The supermarket’s fluorescent lights were a harsh comedown from the golden-hour glow of his social victory. Finn pushed the cart, still riding the high of his friends' texts, feeling almost like an equal to Sophie as they debated what kind of pasta to get.

He was glued to his phone, grinning as he typed another reply to his jealous friends. In one fluid motion, Sophie plucked it from his hands and dropped it into her purse. "You can have it back when we're done. It's rude not to be present."

The buzz of his social life was instantly silenced.

Then they turned into the cereal aisle.

"Okay, we need something halfway decent," Sophie said, scanning the boxes with a critical eye. "Nothing that's just sugar and food coloring."

Finn, feeling a surge of boldness from his earlier triumph, reached for his favorite—a box featuring a cartoon tiger in a brightly colored uniform. "This one's good."

Sophie stopped and looked from the box in his hand back to his face. Her expression wasn't angry, but deeply, patronizingly amused. A small, knowing smile played on her lips.

"Oh, Finn," she said, her voice softening into that gentle, condescending tone that stripped him of all his fourteen-and-a-half years. She took the box from him, her fingers brushing his, and placed it back on the shelf with a definitive thud.

He stood there, his empty hand still hovering in the air, feeling the sting of the rejection.

She selected a plain, beige box of muesli and dropped it into the cart. "This is what young adults eat," she said, emphasizing the words he himself had used so often as a shield. Young adults eat cardboard, apparently. Great.

"Now, let's go get some fruit. And no whining about not liking bananas."

Whining? I wasn’t going to whine! But the pre-emptive strike was the real genius of her move. She wasn't just managing his actions; she was managing his potential reactions, treating him like a predictable child who could be counted on to complain about fruit.

She turned and pushed the cart forward, leaving him standing alone in the aisle. The phantom buzz of his friends' adoration still tingled in his memory, but here, under the sterile lights, he was just a little boy who had been caught picking out a childish cereal. The victory had been intoxicating, but it had lasted less than ten minutes. The hierarchy, he realized with a sinking heart, was not just restored; it was reinforced, more unshakeable than ever.

The moment they stepped back into the flat, the grocery bags landed on the kitchen counter with a rustle of finality. The brief, glorious illusion of control Finn had felt in the car was gone, replaced by the familiar, heavy air of his new reality.

Sophie began unpacking the groceries with an efficient rhythm. Finn hovered by the doorway, gathering his courage. The social victory with his friends had given him a tiny, desperate shred of confidence.

"Sophie?" he began, trying to sound casual, not like a supplicant. "Can I have my phone back now?"

She didn't even look up from placing the muesli in the cupboard. "Is your homework done?"

The question was like a bucket of cold water.

"Well... no, but I'll do it later, I just—"

"Then the answer is no," she said, her voice calm and utterly reasonable as she turned to put the milk in the fridge. "Homework first. Then phone. That's the rule."

"It's not even 4 PM!" he protested, the whine creeping into his voice before he could stop it. He saw her eyebrow lift slightly, and he knew he'd just proven her point. Predictable child.

"The rule isn't 'homework by 8 PM', Finn. It's 'homework first.' Structure. Remember?" She finally looked at him, her gaze steady. "The sooner you start, the sooner you get your phone back. It's a very simple equation."

Defeated, he slunk towards his room, the weight of his textbook-filled backpack suddenly feeling immense. For the next hour, he wrestled with math problems and history dates, his focus constantly broken by the phantom buzz of a notification that wasn't there. Every minute felt like an eternity, a punishment meticulously designed to fit his digital-age crime.

Finally, he slammed his textbook shut. "Done!" he announced, marching back into the living room.

Sophie was reading a book on the couch. She looked up, marking her page with a finger. "All of it?"

"Yes, all of it."

"Show me."

With a sigh of profound exasperation, he retrieved his finished work. She gave it a cursory glance, not really checking for accuracy, but simply verifying its existence. It was a power check, pure and simple.

Satisfied, she reached for his iPhone on the coffee table and held it out. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it? Responsibility has its rewards."

He snatched it from her hand, his fingers itching to reconnect with his social world. The screen lit up, and a wave of messages from Noah and Luca flooded in. But as he stood there, the device finally in his possession, the victory felt hollow. He had his phone, but only because she had allowed it. He had gotten what he wanted, but entirely on her terms. The screen glowed in his hand, a tiny, bright monument to the fact that he was still, and would always be here, on probation.

After the rigid structure of the homework ordeal, Sophie granted him a reprieve. "Alright, you've got an hour. Do whatever."

Finn retreated to his room, the iPhone now a gateway to a world where he was still the cool guy with the hot maid. He texted with Noah and Luca, basking in their envy, carefully curating the narrative. For a while, he could almost forget the muesli.

But the free time ended as predictably as it began. "Finn! Kitchen duty!" Sophie's voice called out, friendly but firm.

He found her already pulling ingredients from the fridge. "Okay, sous-chef," she said, tossing him an apron. "Pasta sauce from scratch. You're on onion duty. Fine chopping, that's the secret."

To his surprise, it started off... normal. Almost pleasant. They talked casually about the Italian food she liked, the restaurant his mom loved in Hamburg, her plans for university. The conversation was easy, the hierarchy momentarily blurred by the shared, mundane task of cooking. He started to relax, the sharp edges of his resentment softening. For a few minutes, it felt less like a prison and more like a shared flat.

"Okay, I need the big pot for the pasta," Sophie said, her hands full with a can of tomatoes. "It's on that top shelf. Can you grab it?"

"Sure," he said, eager to prove his usefulness. He stretched up, his fingers brushing the cool metal handle of the large pot. But he was slightly off-balance, and his grip was clumsy. The pot slipped, tilting, and then fell with an earsplitting, metallic CLANG that echoed through the entire kitchen. It hit the floor and spun in a loud, dizzying circle before settling.

I'm a clumsy idiot. I can't even get a pot without causing a domestic disaster. She's going to think I'm a useless child who can't perform the most basic tasks.

Finn flinched, bracing for the sharp reprimand.

Sophie just sighed, a small, patient smile on her face. "It's okay. No harm done." She picked it up herself. "See? Tough guy." The forgiveness was almost worse than anger; it was the kind of patience you extend to a toddler who has dropped a plastic cup.

A few minutes later, she was beside him at the counter where he was clumsily hacking at an onion. "Here, let me show you the right way to chop an onion, or we'll be finding pieces of your finger in the bolognese." Before he could process it, she was behind him. Her front pressed against his back, her chin near his shoulder. Her right hand came around, enveloping his, her fingers guiding his grip on the knife handle.

It was overwhelming.

Her body was warm and solid against him. The scent of her shampoo filled his senses, something clean and fruity. He could feel the soft pressure of her chest against his shoulder blades. His entire world narrowed to the points of contact between them.

And then, with a traitorous, instantaneous surge, he felt it. The familiar, dreaded tightness in his jeans. A hard, rigid line pressed against the fly. It happened so fast it left him dizzy. Again. Thank God for these stupid, tight briefs.

His mind short-circuited, flashing to the texts from his friends.

"You HAVE to make a move."

"I would literally let her babysit me ANY day."

Here she was, "babysitting" him, showing him how to chop a vegetable like a child, and his body was reacting in the most blatant, humiliating way possible to her instructional touch. The comfortable, normal moment shattered, replaced by a roaring in his ears and a heat that had nothing to do with the stove. He was paralyzed, hyper-aware of every tiny shift of her body against his, praying to any god that would listen that she wouldn't feel the physical evidence of his complete and utter loss of control.

The truce held through dinner and solidified in the living room. The awkwardness from the kitchen had melted away, replaced by the easy camaraderie they'd briefly found before the onion incident.

"Okay, no more zombies," Sophie declared, flopping onto the rug in front of the coffee table. "How about a board game? Something that doesn't require you to be scared of your own shadow."

"Ha, ha," Finn said, but he was smiling. He rummaged through the cupboard and pulled out an old, slightly battered box. "Monopoly?"

"Perfect. Prepare to go bankrupt."

They set up the board on the floor, sitting cross-legged opposite each other. For the next hour, they were just two people playing a game. Sophie was competitive and laughed when she put a hotel on Boardwalk, wiping out his savings. Finn groaned in mock-despair but found himself genuinely enjoying it. The dynamic felt balanced, almost equal. The texts from his friends felt less like a lie and more like a potential future. Maybe this can work. Maybe we can actually be friends.

He was winning, for once. He'd just scored a full set of the orange properties and was feeling invincible. Sophie landed on one of them, and he crowed with triumph.

"Alright, alright, don't get cocky," she laughed, shaking the dice for her next turn. She leaned forward, her focus on the board, and as she did, her knee accidentally bumped against his.

It was nothing. A trivial, passing contact.

But for Finn, whose body had become a treacherous, unpredictable enemy, it was a trigger.

It happened instantly, without any conscious thought. One second he was a victorious property tycoon, the next he was painfully, undeniably erect. Panic, cold and sharp, replaced all the warm, fuzzy feelings of moments before. No. Not now. Not when everything is good!

In that moment, Sophie announced she needed to use the toilet.

"I'll be right back, don't cheat!" she said, pushing herself up from the floor with a grin.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Finn shot back, his smile feeling like a brittle mask.

Thank you for small mercies, he thought, seizing the opportunity. The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, he scrambled into action. He looked down his pants, grabbed the offending member, and pressed it flat against his stomach, pulling his briefs up with a desperate, wedging tug. The tight cotton dug in, but it did the job, hiding the obvious outline. Oh, the irony. Thank God for these stupid briefs now. He yanked his t-shirt down to make sure no sliver of underwear was visible and arranged a cushion on his lap for good measure.

He was still trying to regulate his breathing when Sophie returned. "Okay, where were we? Oh right, you were about to lose everything."

Finn forced a laugh, the sound tight in his throat. 

The Monopoly money was packed away, the board back in its box. A comfortable, post-game lethargy had settled over the living room. Finn was sprawled on one end of the couch, feeling more at ease than he had all day. Sophie was at the other end, idly browsing the bookshelf.

"Wow, your mom has a lot of photo albums," she commented, pulling a thick, fabric-covered volume from the shelf. "Mind if we look?"

Finn's sense of ease evaporated. "Uh. They're kinda boring. Just... old trips and stuff."

"Oh, come on," she said, already carrying the album back to the couch and settling in closer to him than before. "It'll be fun. I want to see little Finn."

She opened the cover. The first page was a collage of his mother's pregnancy. Finn groaned. "Can we skip to, like, last year?"

"Absolutely not," Sophie said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "This is the good stuff." She pointed to a picture of a toddler, maybe three years old, sitting naked in a inflatable pool in the garden, a look of pure, soapy joy on his face. "Oh my god, you were so cute! Look at those little cheeks!"

Finn felt a hot flush start at his collar. "Yeah, well. I was a baby."

She turned the page, and he was forced to narrate. "That's... that's us in Denmark. On the ferry. I was six." He found himself, almost against his will, getting drawn into the stories. "And that there, that's when I won my first football cup. We went for ice cream after." He pointed, explaining the context, the friends in the picture, even the silly argument he'd had with his mom that day. It felt surprisingly normal, almost like talking to a friend.

Then she turned a page, and his blood ran cold.

It was a double-page spread from a summer in Italy. There were pictures of him in a speedo and his friend in swimming shorts building sandcastles, playing, swimming, jumping. Pictures of his mom and other women, her friend, laughing. And right in the middle, a large, glossy photo of a nine-year-old Finn, standing triumphantly on the shore, completely naked, his tiny body caked in sand, his penis pointing up at the sky, holding a water rifle. His friend was standing next to him also holding a water gun, but wearing swimming shorts.

Sophie's finger went right to it. "And this masterpiece? What's the story here?"

Finn's face burned. This was the moment. He could whine, he could get embarrassed, he could slam the book shut—and prove he was still a little boy who couldn't handle his own past. Or he could own it.

He took a shallow breath. "Oh, that," he said, his voice miraculously steady. “That was in Italy, in Tropea. My mother’s friend came with her son, Thilo, he’s just one year younger than me.” He said it with a wry, self-deprecating smile, as if commenting on a quirky historical figure he barely remembered. “My swimsuit ripped off as I jumped from a cliff; I got caught on a sharp piece of stone. Really unlucky.”

“Indeed, I see a wound on your hip.” Her finger was dangerously close to his pointing member in that picture. Pointing just the same as it is right now, he thought, hidden thanks to these tight briefs.

Sophie looked from the photo to his face, her expression unreadable for a second. Then she let out a real, unforced laugh.

“And you got no spare pair with you?”

“It was just one day left of the holidays, so we decided to leave it like that.”

“Sure, why ruin the last moments? Tropea is so beautiful, I wish I could go there one day too. I love the pictures.”

She turned to the next page, her finger moving on to a photo of him covered in birthday cake. "And this?"

He explained the cake disaster, his heart still hammering, but a strange, triumphant feeling began to bloom in his chest. Sophie was a rapt audience, asking questions and laughing in all the right places. The vibe was good. He was being cool, handling it. He found himself talking more than he intended, telling her stories about beach holidays where he'd been terrified of crabs, about the tree in his grandparents' garden he'd fallen out of, about his first day of school. It felt... normal. He was managing it.

They spent another twenty minutes like that, flipping through the years. He pointed out other embarrassing shots—the bad haircuts, the questionable fashion choices—always with a joke, always playing it cool.

"Your mom really loves you," Sophie said softly. "It's all right there."

"Yeah," Finn said, and for the first time, it didn't feel like a concession. "She does."

Then, Sophie turned a page and fell silent.

Finn’s breath hitched. He recognized the scene from the photo, but he had no idea a printed picture existed. He was seeing it for the first time. It was taken just nine months ago, the previous summer, at a lakeside camping trip with his mom. He was thirteen and a half. It’s clearly more recent than the others; the quality is better, the style more modern. There is a handwritten date.

The photo shows Finn standing on a jetty, caught in a moment of unselfconscious joy. He’s just about to dive into the water. His body is turned sideways, arms raised. He’s completely naked.

Damn. DAMN!!! Just as I confirmed how mom loves me. She puts such a picture in a photobook! Why, why, WHY!!!

Sophie just let out a simple “Oh.”

She is looking at my body. Oh my god, that picture is so recent! Why, why the hell does that have to happen to me?! God have mercy, let me sink into the floor!

And his body is… unchanged. It’s the body of a child. There is no hint of puberty. His chest is smooth and flat, his limbs are long and lanky without any of the filling-out of adolescence. The most damning detail—the central piece of evidence—is his genitalia. It is still small, prepubescent. Undeniably, unequivocally, that of a little boy. There is no visual evidence of the development he desperately hopes is underway.

“Why are you so silent? Tell me what happened here! Another ripped swimsuit?” She looked at him, laughing. Not laughing at him, but laughing at the situation.

“What, no, no.” He tried to stay calm and not lose his composure, even though he felt his face burning. “It was just… no one there on that day, just me and mom. It’s an unknown place in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, so…”

“I really like the connection you guys have, even now you being a teenager. It’s a rare thing. The place must have been so free. So wild. The nature in the background. I can see why your mother printed that picture, it’s really nice.” She was studying the picture. Studying the body of a boy who called himself a young adult. There was no hint of puberty's transformation. And most damningly, due to the cold water, his genitalia were visibly small, retracted, and completely prepubescent.

She can't see that. It's a lie. It's from last year... well, almost a year... but I've changed since then! I have!... Have I? Oh God, she's looking at it. She's looking right at... there. It's all out there. It's tiny. I look like a little kid. All my arguing, all my "I'm fourteen and a half, young adult" and this photo is now ruining everything. Oh mom, why would you do that!! You know how embarrassing it is for me!!

“I wish my mom was like that, but unfortunately it was quite different. That’s why I wanted to become an educator, a teacher, a babysitter. To learn that, to give to others what I, myself, didn’t get. I already see it was a good decision to become your babysitter. That’s quite an experience.”

She stroked his head like she did before. The open album, with that picture, was still on her knees.

“Alright, it is getting very late, and you didn’t even shower. So, chop chop. into the shower, pajamas on, and quickly to bed. And don’t forget to bring me your cell phone!”

“But Sophie, I’m fourteen and a half, do I haaaave to?” he moaned. Again. He’d forgotten himself.

“Well..” Sophie glanced at that picture again. A small, knowing smile touched her lips as she closed the album with a soft, final thud. “Yes, you have to. That’s a rule. We were having a good day, so don’t ruin it with your childish moaning, would you?”

“Ekhm… alright, alright…”

The shower did little to wash away the turmoil. Back in his room, he pulled on the old pajama bottoms. They were too big, a hand-me-down or a misjudged purchase, and they sagged low on his hips, threatening to slide down his butt with every step. 

He shuffled back into the living room, the finality of the phone's surrender hitting him, the loose fabric swishing around his ankles. Sophie was still on the couch, now reading her book.

Just before he'd handed it over, the screen had lit up with a final notification from Noah.

Noah: Why are you so silent? Is your sexy maid giving u a bath? haha

Bath? The word felt like a punchline to a joke only he understood. They think it's a dream, he thought, the bitterness a sharp, coppery taste in his mouth. And I can't tell them it's the exact opposite. That the "sexy maid" just put me to bed after looking at pictures that prove I'm still a little boy.

He submissively held out his iPhone without a word.

"Thank you," she said, taking it and placing it on the coffee table without looking up. "Sleep well, Finn."

He fell into bed, the oversized pajamas bunching uncomfortably around his legs. He felt small and ridiculous. But as he lay there in the dark, the fabric pooling around his thighs, his teenage brain—a cauldron of hormones, shame, and a desperate, newfound hope—began to churn.

The saggy pants... they were a problem. But what if they were also an opportunity?

The thoughts came in a rushing, euphoric torrent.

Wait a minute... Why did she look at those pictures so closely? Really looked at them. The naked ones. She wasn't just laughing; she was asking questions. Studying them. And in the kitchen... she pressed against me. Her whole body. She didn't have to get that close to show me how to chop an onion. She could have just told me. No one gets that close unless...

The texts from Noah and Luca echoed in his mind, now sounding less like jokes and more like prophecies.

"You HAVE to make a move."

"She's so fit!"

"Is your sexy maid giving u a bath?"

A dizzying possibility exploded in his mind: What if they're right? What if she... likes me?

It was insane. It was the most logical thing he'd ever thought.

She's always in control. Always the boss. But maybe... maybe this is her way. Looking at the pictures, the touching... she can't just say it. She's the babysitter. But she's giving me signs.

A crazy, electrifying idea sparked and caught fire.

Why not... just... kick them off during the night? It's hot in here. It's what guys do. I could just... be uncovered when she comes in to wake me up. She's seen it all in pictures anyway. What's one more time? But live... this time it would be live. And it wouldn't be my fault. The pants just fell off.

The logic was flawed and desperate, but it was his logic. It was a plan. An act of defiance.

It was a rebellion forged entirely from his inner excitement and confusion. A way to bridge the unbearable gap between the humiliated child and the hormonally-charged teenager. To turn his vulnerability into a weapon, and to force a reaction from the girl who held all the power.

She'll have to react. She'll have to 'accidentally' see me... And I won't even hear the alarm. I'll be asleep. It won't be my fault.

It was a rebellion forged from a toxic, exhilarating mix of humiliation, hope, and a desperate desire to be seen as desirable by the one person who treated him like a child. 

With a sense of grim, exhilarating determination, he wriggled his legs and kicked the saggy pajama bottoms down, shoving them to the bottom of the bed with his feet. The cool air hit his skin. He lay back on the pillow, his heart hammering. It was the craziest idea he'd ever had.

The plan had seemed so bold, so clever, lying in the dark. But the excitement had been a cruel companion. A throbbing, persistent erection had made it impossible to find a comfortable position, his mind racing with imagined scenarios of the morning. He’d finally fallen asleep in very late hours, his body and mind exhausted from the turmoil, sinking into a deep, dreamless void.

The shriek of his iPhone alarm was a distant, muffled sound from another universe. A hand flailed, swiped blindly at the screen, and silence fell once more. He didn’t even stir.

The next thing he knew was a sensation of sudden cold. The warm, heavy weight of his duvet was gone, ripped from his body by an outside force.

"Finn. Time to get up. You missed your alarm. Again. "

Sophie's voice was firm, cutting through the thick fog of his sleep. He groaned, his brain struggling to boot up. He was on his stomach, face buried in the pillow. He was aware of being cold, of the morning air on his skin. But his sleep-addled mind was slow to process why.

He shifted, a sluggish, grumbling movement, turning partially onto his side to bury his face deeper. The movement exposed the full, smooth curve of his bare buttocks and the back of his thighs to the cool room—and to Sophie's gaze.

For a full minute, he simply lay there, breathing deeply, hovering in the blissful, ignorant space between sleep and consciousness. The plan, the excitement, the shame—it was all forgotten, erased by the sheer power of his exhaustion.

Then, he felt it. A quick, stinging, playful smack on his bare backside.

"Come on, sleepyhead. Up you get."

It was the final push his body needed. With a grunt of protest, he instinctively rolled over onto his back, rubbing his eyes with one hand, completely oblivious.

"Five more minutes..." he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

And there he was. Fully exposed. The morning light from the window fell directly upon him. His limbs were splayed, his torso pale. And in the center of it all, small, flaccid, and utterly unchanged from the child in the Rügen photo, the lake picture, and every other damning piece of evidence in the album, was his penis. It wasn't the proud, rebellious symbol of his nighttime fantasies. And, in the cold morning air and the shock of being awakened, it was visibly retracting, trying to make itself as small and insignificant as possible. It looked, more than anything, ashamed of its own existence and the failed, grandiose plot it had been a part of.

And then she spoke, her voice breezy and utterly normal.

"Alright, sleepyhead, enough lounging. The day isn't getting any younger." She turned away from the bed as if looking at a naked, fourteen-and-a-half-year-old boy was just part of her morning routine. She walked over to his wardrobe. "Let's see... what are we feeling for school today?"

He lay frozen, exposed and pathetic.

Oh.

OH.

NO.

The memory of his grand, idiotic plan crashed back into him with the force of a freight train. The excitement. The rebellion. The fantasy of her seeing him as something more.

You complete and utter IDIOT. What did you think would happen? That she'd see you like some Greek god? Look at it! It's the same as in the pictures! It's worse! It's... hiding! You planned this! You did this to yourself!

The fantasy was a pile of ashes. The reality was a freezing, naked, and profoundly humiliating awakening.

"I... S-s-s-orry Sophie I... ghmm..." His voice was a trembling, pathetic squeak. "It jj-j-j-just happens sometimes... I must have kicked off my bottoms.... I am a restless sleeper!" The lie was transparent and weak, even to his own ears.

She looked at him while collecting clothes for his outfit. "I know," she said, her tone utterly matter-of-fact as she held up a blue Nike t-shirt. "I saw that when I came here in the late hours to bring your phone back. You were sleeping like a baby and your pants were already on the floor."

“Ahm... oh really... yeah sorry I...” The words died in his throat. She knew. She knew all along. She saw me last night and just... put my phone down and left. She saw the failed plot in its earliest stage and said nothing. I'm not a schemer; I'm a predictable child having a predictable tantrum.

"Don't worry," she continued, selecting black shorts, "it happens to boys I babysit all the time. Just stand up, we are in a hurry."

It happens to boys I babysit. The phrase was a nail in the coffin of his dignity. He was just another little boy in her care.

Finn wanted to stand up, his eyes desperately scanning the floor for his pajama bottoms, a shred of modesty.

"Oh Finn, I already put them in the laundry box. Come on, what do you think of that set?" Not waiting for a reaction, she put the clothes on his bed next to him.

Trapped, he started covering himself with both hands, a futile, belated gesture. It's too late. It's all too late. She's seen everything. There's nothing left to hide. The undeniable truth of his childish body was laid bare, contrasted only by the calm, unshakeable authority of the person tasked with looking after it.

She opened the drawer with his underwear. "Socks, easy peasy." She tossed him his white tennis Nike socks. "And some undies.." She held up a pair of black boxer briefs, inspecting them for holes like yesterday. "A hole!" She threw them in the rubbish bin with a casual flick of her wrist. Then she took the next pair, blue boxer briefs. "Here, they seem good." She tossed them onto the pile.

He was still sitting there, hands clamped over his crotch, paralyzed by shame.

"I'm serious, Finn, stop sitting here like a helpless little boy. You are over fourteen; do I have to help you dress up?!?"

"W-what?! No, no!" The horror of that prospect finally jolted him.

"Then why am I seeing you still sitting half-naked on your bed? Up with you, now!" She moved with startling efficiency, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet. He stumbled upright, his entire body blushing, one hand still desperately trying to preserve the last vestiges of his privacy.

"I'm dressing up, seriously, but, Sophie, please, just please give me a minute!" he begged, his voice cracking.

She gave him a final, assessing look that saw right through his pathetic covering hands. "I see you at the breakfast in 2 minutes!"

She turned and left, closing the door behind her. He had never felt more exposed, more foolish, or more completely and utterly seen.

Move. Just move. You have two minutes. Don't think. Just put the clothes on. The clothes she picked out. Like dressing a doll. A stupid, naked doll.

His hands trembled as he snatched the blue boxer briefs from the bed. The fabric felt alien and judgmental.

She inspected these. She held them up and looked for holes. She’s the gatekeeper of my own underwear. And I’m standing here, letting her. No, not letting her. Begging her for a minute of privacy like it’s a privilege she can grant.

He stepped into them, yanking the boxer-briefs up. The tight cotton was covering the evidence, but it couldn’t cover the memory. He could still feel the ghost of her eyes on him.

‘It happens to boys I babysit all the time.’ All the time. I’m not special. I’m not a rebel. I’m a statistic. A line item in her babysitting log: ‘Subject Finn, Day 2: Attempted nudity-based power play. Failed. Required dressing prompt.’

He pulled the black shorts on, then the Nike t-shirt. Each piece felt like a layer of a costume he was putting on to play the part of "Finn, fourteen-and-a-half " a role he was failing at spectacularly. He looked at the pile of his discarded pajamas in the laundry box.

My grand plan. My big move. Ended with her throwing my pants in the laundry and telling me to hurry up. God, I’m such a moron. What was I thinking? That she’d be impressed? She was more interested in checking my clothes for holes than looking at me.

The walk to the kitchen was a death march. Every step felt heavy, his body humming with residual embarrassment.

Don’t give her another reason. Just get through breakfast. Don’t look at her. Just eat and go. Go to school where at least I can pretend to be the person my friends think I am. The person who doesn’t exist.

He paused outside the kitchen door, taking a shaky breath. He could hear her moving inside, the clink of a plate.

Okay. Okay. You’re dressed. You’re fine. It’s over. Just walk in. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her seeing… everything. Don’t think about her pulling you out of bed. Don’t think about the fact that she’s seen you more naked than anyone, and all it did was prove to her that you’re exactly the child she thought you were.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen. The smell of toast and scrambled eggs filled the air. Sophie was at the counter, her back to him, perfectly composed.

"Right on time," she said without turning around. "Sit down. Your juice is there."

He slid into his chair, his eyes fixed on the table. The boy sitting here now was just a hollowed-out shell, dressed in clothes he didn’t choose, eating food he didn’t ask for, living a life entirely orchestrated by the calm, unshakeable girl now turning around to hand him a plate.

As she handed him the plate, her fingers brushed his, and then her hand was in his hair again. That same, slow, patronizing stroke from his crown to his nape. "Enjoy your meal," she said, as if the last twenty minutes had never happened.

She launched into a casual monologue about the sunny weather, his classes for the day, anything and everything. Finn mechanically lifted his fork, but the scrambled eggs felt like sawdust in his mouth. Each swallow was a conscious, difficult effort.

Just eat. Nod. Smile. Don't let her see it's killing you. You can't leave for school like this. You can't walk out of here looking like a beaten dog. You have to say something. You have to act like a man about it. Clear the air. But how? How do you clear the air after she's seen your... everything... and then served you eggs?

The casual chatter was a form of torture. It underlined how insignificant his grand humiliation was to her.

"Look, Sophie," he said, his voice tighter and higher than he intended. He gathered every ounce of his strength, putting his fork down.

She looked up, surprised. "What is it, Finn?"

"I'm really sorry you had to see... all of me today. Really, I'm sorry!" The words tumbled out in a rushed, pathetic jumble.

She didn't say anything. She just kept looking at him, her left eyebrow arched in mild, clinical curiosity. The silence stretched, forcing him to fill it. He had to explain. He had to make her understand it was an accident.

"Look, i don't know, it happens sometimes, that I just kick off my pants in the night, I'm not doing that intentionally! But I'm not used to be living with a girl, like, except for my mom, of course, but that's different. So, anyways, I'm sorry, it won't happen again!"

'It's different.' God, that's the understatement of the century. And 'it won't happen again'? How can I promise that? I can't control my sleep! This is a disaster. I'm just digging a deeper hole.

"How do you know it won't happen again if you do it unintentionally during sleep?" Her question was calm, logical, and utterly dismantling.

"I... ough... I don't know, I will wear extra underwear, or something!" he blurted out, the sheer desperation of the suggestion making his ears burn. "I'll do anything, just don't be mad!"

Extra underwear? I'll do ANYTHING? What am I saying?! I'm begging. I'm literally begging the girl who just saw me naked not to be angry about it. This is the lowest point of my entire life.

"Oh Finn, you are so cute!"

The word hit him like a physical blow. Cute. Not 'it's okay,' not 'apology accepted.' Cute. Like a puppy that had piddled on the floor.

She stood up, came to him, and hugged him while he was still sitting, pulling his head against her chest. She stroked his hair and then kissed his head. "I'm not mad at you!" She released him and sat back down as if she'd just tied his shoelaces.

"You're not?" The hope in his voice was mortifying.

"No, silly! I told you, I babysit many boys. I'm used to the view. Boys are always so reckless," she continued, sipping her juice. "They forget their pants, or spill juice on their lap and just take them off, or try to 'swim' in the inflatable pool in just their underwear, which, of course, come off immediately, or claim their pajamas are ‘too itchy’ or ‘too hot’ and just kick them off like you did, or just run around nudie and don't care about the world. So I'm seeing many little pee-pees, believe me, you are no exception."

Little pee-pees. You are no exception. I'm not an exception. I'm a data point. One of many little pee-pees she's catalogued. She just grouped me in with toddlers.

"Girls are much different on that subject, always modest and careful. But boys will be boys, don't you think?"

"Ekhm... yeah sure..." he managed, his throat tight. "But... I guess I'm a bit… older? So I don't want to insult you with showing you my junk like a little kid, you know..."

'My junk.' I sound like such a try-hard. A little kid trying to use grown-up words to describe his 'little pee-pee'.

"Insult me? Finn, don't worry, seriously!" She laughed, a light, breezy sound that felt like needles. "There are reasons why I'm here, so I'm prepared. Apart from that, I saw your pictures, reckless like a typical boy, you know that. Some of them hang on the wall in front of your bed. So I saw everything already, you know that, nothing to be ashamed of."

And there it was. The final, gentle, utterly devastating annihilation. She connected the dots for him, explicitly linking his naked morning to the naked photos on his wall. He wasn't a teenager who had a embarrassing accident. He was just a "reckless," "typical boy".

Nothing to be ashamed of. She sees little pee-pees all the time. I'm just one of the boys. A typical boy. So why does my face feel like it's on fire? Why do I want to disappear? And why... why is that feeling in my stomach again? That hot, tight coil... No. Not now. Not after that. That would be... sick.

He forced another bite of egg, chewing mechanically. Sophie had moved on, talking about how she needed to go to the supermarket later. Her voice was a distant hum. All he could focus on was the throbbing, traitorous heat beginning to pool low in his abdomen. It was a separate entity, a stupid, primal beast that didn't understand context or humiliation. It only understood proximity to her.

"Finn? You're very quiet. Everything okay?" Sophie asked, her head tilted.

"Y-yeah. Just... thinking about school," he lied, his voice rough. He shifted in his chair, trying to find an angle that would relieve the growing, insistent pressure against his boxer-briefs.

"Okay, well, finish up. You need to brush your teeth." She stood and started clearing her plate. As she leaned across the table to take his, her sweater brushed against his arm. It was the lightest touch, but it sent a jolt through his system. The coil tightened. The throbbing intensified into a definite, stubborn stiffness.

No. No, no, no! This is the most humiliating moment of my life! She just called my dick a 'little pee-pee'! Why are you doing this?! Stop it! You're proving her right! You're acting like a little boy with no control!

He stayed seated, frozen, terrified that standing up would reveal the obvious tent in his shorts. He was trapped at the breakfast table by his own rebellious anatomy.

Sophie was at the sink now, her back to him. "Come on, Finn. Up and at 'em. The day's waiting."

He saw his chance. If he moved quickly, maybe he could adjust himself in the hallway. He stood up, pulling the waistband of his underwear sharply as much as he could, just to push his penis close to his body and make it less visible.

"Okay, I'll... I'll go brush my teeth," he mumbled, already sidling towards the door.

"Wait."

He froze.

She turned from the sink, drying her hands on a towel. Her eyes scanned him from head to toe, and for a terrifying second, he was sure she knew. But her gaze settled on his face.

"You've got a little..." she said, stepping towards him. Before he could react, she was in his space. Her fingers reached out and gently brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth.

It was a simple, domestic gesture. A caretaker's gesture. But her fingers were on his skin, her body was close, and her scent filled his senses. The combination of her maternal action and his illicit physical response was a dizzying, sickening cocktail.

The erection, fueled by the touch and the proximity, became a rigid, aching presence. It felt like a betrayal of everything he was feeling—the shame, the embarrassment, the desire to be seen as mature. It was a purely physical scream in a mind filled with psychological agony.

I hate this. I hate her. I hate my body. I don't understand any of this. Why does it feel... good... and so, so bad at the same time? She's treating me like a baby and my body is reacting like she's... like she's... I'm disgusting.

He flinched back from her touch. "I got it!" he said, too sharply.

Sophie's eyebrows raised slightly, but she just smiled that infuriatingly calm smile. "Okay, touchy. Go on then. I'll see you after school."

He didn't wait for another word. He practically ran from the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He needed to go. He pulled his shorts and underwear all the way down and leaned against the wall, his heart hammering, his body thrumming with a confused and shameful energy. He pointed his achingly hard penis, but couldn't focus. Again. Oh, come on! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Nothing. He couldn't, not in that state. With a groan of frustration, he pulled his pants back up.

He looked at himself in the mirror—a boy dressed for school, his face pale and eyes wide with a mixture of horror and excitement he couldn't begin to untangle. The walk to school would be long. He had a lot to think about. And a lot he desperately needed to forget.