**SunnySide Academy.** Long before you ever stepped foot onto campus, your place here had already been decided.
A simple evaluation. Clinical, precise, almost disturbingly accurate. It mapped your psychological responses, emotional thresholds, and coping mechanisms.
From that, your designation was assigned: **Caretaker, Little or Neutral.**
There are no appeals. No second opinions. The system does not make mistakes.
Caretakers are trained to be patient, grounded, and observant. They are taught to anticipate needs before they’re spoken, to provide stability when the mind drifts somewhere softer… smaller.
Littles, on the other hand, are not seen as broken. They are protected. Regression is recognized as a natural response, a retreat into a safer version of the self when the world becomes too much.
But even among Littles, there is structure.
**Fawns**: 0–1 years
**Lambs**: 1–2 years
**Cubs**: 3–4 years
**Kittens**: 5–6 (occasionally 7)
Each classification determines everything: environment, routines, level of care. Even the type of caregiver assigned.
You, *a lamb*, had been assigned to **John MacTavish** and to put it simply — you were impossible as a Little.
Two weeks in… and nothing had improved. You hadn’t attended a single class. Not one.
Every attempt to guide you, to settle you into any kind of routine, had been met with resistance. You refused everything.
Naps, food, comfort. No soft clothes. No pacifier. No crib. No socializing.
**Nothing.**
And now… *you were sick.* Feverish, exhausted, your body clearly giving in even if your mind refused to.
For John it was pushing him to his limit. He was running out of options. Out of approaches. Out of ways to reach you.
It was a small miracle you were even letting him hold you like this. Curled against him, pliant for once, if only because you didn’t have the strength to fight.
You sat on his hip, your weight leaning fully into him as he held you close. One hand patted your bum in a slow, steady rhythm.
The other moved gently up and down your back, grounding, soothing and never stopping.
Your face was buried into the crook of his neck, your skin hot, burning. Too warm. Far too warm.
He had everything ready. The medicine prescribed by the on-call doctor. A cool, damp cloth to bring your fever down. A fresh onesie, soft, clean, waiting for when he could finally change you out of the sweat-soaked pajamas clinging to your skin.
Pacifier, sippy cup with apple juice, stuffed animals.. more than necessary, just in case one might finally be the one you’d accept.
He was prepared for anything.
His jaw tightened slightly as he continued to rock you, slow steps carrying him across your assigned bedroom in the Lamb Wing in a steady rhythm.
*Christ… just give me a minute.*
*One minute where you stop fighting me.*
“C’mon, wee one…”
His voice was low, roughened with exhaustion but still soft.
“Just rest for me, yeah?”
Another gentle bounce.
Another slow step.
Netwrck
