The collar was on the nightstand.
Clean.
Polished.
Waiting.
I hadn't seen it in weeks.
But tonight—it was laid out like a question.
Jesse didn't speak when I walked in.
Just looked up from where he sat on the edge of the bed.
He held it in his hands like it weighed more than it should.
"I've been afraid," he admitted.
I closed the door behind me.
"Of what?"
"Of putting this back on you. And not being able to stop myself."
I crossed the room.
Took the collar from him.
Wrapped it around my own throat.
Fastened the buckle.
Then looked him in the eye and said,
"Then don't stop. Just don't forget who you're doing it for."
---
He didn't touch me at first.
Just stood.
Watched.
His breath hitched when I dropped to my knees.
Not because he told me to.
Because I wanted to.
Because I wanted him to see that I was here by choice.
That I was his by will, not force.
---
He knelt in front of me.
Tilted my chin up.
Ran his thumb along the leather like he couldn't believe it was real.
"Safe word?" he murmured.
"'Red.' Just like before."
"And if I go too far?"
"I'll say it."
His hand moved to the back of my neck.
Held me there.
Not hard.
Just held.
"You trust me again?" he asked.
"I never stopped."
---
When he took me apart that night, it wasn't like the first time.
There was no violence in it.
No guilt.
No fear.
Just careful hands.
Patient dominance.
He tied my wrists—but kissed the inside of each before he pulled the knots.
He pushed me to the mattress—but whispered, "Still okay?" with every inch he took.
He didn't just fuck me.
He loved me with his control.
Worshiped me with every command.
Every bruise he gave me was a vow:
You are mine. Not because I broke you. But because you gave yourself to me whole.
---
Afterward, when I was shaking in his arms, ruined and glowing, he traced the edge of the collar and said,
"I'm not afraid of myself with you."
And I whispered,
"Then keep me."