He glared at her, his blue eyes narrowing behind his glasses. Angry heat flushed up his neck. Why did she always have to make it weird and cute? The diaper was heavy, taped snug around her hips, the tabs stubborn from her squirming. He peeled them open with precise, furious tugs—too hard at first, then forcing himself to slow down because the crinkle set his teeth on edge. Wipe after wipe, methodical, clinical, but his hands shook with the bottled-up rage of someone who hated how much he loved the vulnerability in her eyes.
“You’re such a mess,” he snapped, not entirely unkindly. His voice cracked a bit on the words. “Always stuffing your face with those bloody chicken things and then pissing yourself two minutes later. What are you, five?”

Keeks giggled, unbothered, popping another dipper into her mouth and chewing noisily. “Maybe. But you’re the one changin’ me, aren’t ya? My angry little autistic boy with the pretty curls.” She reached up and tugged one of his blonde ringlets, sauce-sticky fingers and all.
Letdown swatted her hand away, face burning. “Fuck off.” But he didn’t stop. He slid the clean diaper under her, powdered her generously—maybe more than needed, because the scent calmed the buzzing in his head—and taped it up tight, snug and secure. His anger simmered down into something quieter, almost protective, as he smoothed the front with a final pat.
She beamed up at him, legs kicking again. “Best chicken dipper reward ever. Love you, ya grumpy git.”
Letdown sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on his jeans, a reluctant half-smirk breaking through the scowl. “Yeah, whatever. Next time you’re eating them after I change you. Or I’m taping your mouth shut too.”
Keeks just laughed and offered him a sauce-covered dipper. In their weird little world, it was enough.