SEVEN
Seven wakes up to warmth.
Not Sloane's body, Sloane never touched her, but the heat she left behind in the sheets, the ghost of her breathing, the memory of being kept on edge until sleep crept up like exhaustion instead of comfort.
Seven stretches, wincing at how keyed-up her body still feels.
Sloane did that on purpose.
She knows it.
Sloane knows she knows it.
She pulls on the oversized sleep shirt, still smelling like Sloane, and pads downstairs quietly.
The house is quiet but not empty. Seven can feel her before she sees her.
Sloane stands in the kitchen, hair pulled back, wearing joggers and a fitted tank, flipping something in a pan with calm efficiency. She glances over.
"You slept late."
Seven blinks. "You...made breakfast?"
"I don't leave my subs hungry," Sloane says simply, plating eggs, toast, fruit, everything neat and undeniably thoughtful. "Sit."
Seven sits.
Sloane puts the plate in front of her and steps back, not hovering, but watching her eat like she's assessing a wild animal she's trying not to spook.
Seven eats slower than she should. The food is good. Ridiculously good.
When she finishes, Sloane retrieves something from the counter, a black leather portfolio binder.
Seven's stomach flips.
"You drafted a contract," she says.
Sloane sets it down in front of her, flipping it open. "It's a template. Nothing is final until you say it is."
Seven's eyes skim the clean, structured paragraphs.
Expectations. Boundaries. Protocol. Safewords. Levels of intensity.
And then—
Pages. Literal pages.
Damn near every kink known to man.
Sloane sits across from her, hands folded.
"I need you to read every word," Sloane says. "And cross out anything you aren't comfortable with."
Seven blinks. "Every word?"
"Yes," Sloane says, meeting her eyes steadily. "Your safety is not up for negotiation."
Seven nods and starts reading through the list.
Some of it is expected, bondage variations, power exchange, sensory deprivation, light pain, edging.
Some of it is intense.
Some of it is...no.
Seven grabs the pen Sloane left on the table.
She crosses out age play.
Crosses out pet play.
Crosses out anything labeled slave or master/slave.
Crosses out watersports.
Crosses out scat.
Crosses out vomit.
Crosses out blood play.
Crosses out anything involving bodily functions.
Sloane watches carefully, saying nothing, only nodding when Seven glances up to check her expression.
Finally Seven sets down the pen. "Everything else is fine."
Sloane studies her. "Are you sure?"
Seven shrugs. "If I try something and I hate it, I'll use the safeword. That's the point, right?"
