Page 41 of Knox's Boy

He nodded slowly, his fingers still caressing the edge of the paper.

"So when do we start?"

I checked my watch again, savoring the small victory. "We already have. It's 8:15. According to page three, you have fifteen minutes to shower and dress before breakfast."

He groaned dramatically, but I didn't miss the slight upward curl of his lips as he gathered the folder and stood.

"Yes, Daddy, whatever," he said, the words half-mocking, half-sincere. But as he turned to leave, I caught the tight grip he kept on the rules, as if they were something precious.

The transformation began slowly, in small moments. Day by day, I watched Florian shift from grudging compliance to something deeper, though he still maintained his bratty facade. The first morning after I presented the rules, I entered his room at 8 AM, the time specified in our agreement. He was curled in a tight ball beneath the comforter, only a tuft of blond hair visible on the pillow. When I pulled back the curtains, letting sunlight flood the space, he groaned theatrically and buried his face deeper into the pillow.

"Rise and shine, little boy," I announced, setting a mug of coffee on his nightstand. "Schedule starts now."

"This is inhumane," he mumbled, voice muffled by the Egyptian cotton. "Waking people at this ungodly hour should be a war crime."

But he reached for the coffee, nevertheless, sitting up with bleary eyes and tousled hair. I fought the urge to smooth it down, to run my fingers through those soft strands. Instead, I watched him take his first sip, savoring it.

By the third morning, I found him already stirring when I entered, his eyes fluttering open as I approached the window. By the fifth, he was sitting up in bed, waiting, his phone in hand as he scrolled through social media. On the seventh morning, I opened his door to find him already in the shower, the sound of off-key singing floating through the steam.

Progress.

The text check-ins evolved similarly. Initially, they were perfunctory:

Arrived at campus. F

Leaving now. F

Short. Dutiful. Bare minimum compliance. But by Wednesday, they had evolved:

At school. The coffee here is garbage compared to yours. F

Done with classes. Library until 5? That OK? F

Heading home. Can we get Thai for dinner? Pretty please with sugar on top? F

I found myself checking my phone more frequently than I ever had before. Actually, with the same frequency as before, when our entire dynamic lived in a screen. The banter was back, through text and, even better, in person. The small buzz against my chest sparked a warmth that lingered. The Thursday afternoon text particularly caught me off guard:

Class got out early. Heading home. Can't wait to see you. F

I allowed myself a rare smile in the middle of a budget meeting, earning curious glances from my CFO. Of course, I had given him his own driver, so he only needed to call him, and he could go anywhere he wanted.

His study habits transformed most dramatically. On the first evening of our schedule, I found him sprawled across his desk, textbooks open but untouched, his attention fixed on his laptop where some mindless video played. He jumped when I appeared in the doorway.

"I was just taking a break," he said quickly, slamming the laptop closed.

"You haven't started yet," I observed, leaning against the doorframe. "What’s the rule? 'Study periods are for focused academic work only. Social media and entertainment are restricted to designated leisure hours.'"

He sighed dramatically but pulled his textbook closer. When I returned an hour later, I found him hunched over a notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration. He didn't even notice me.

By the end of the week, I passed his room to find him surrounded by books, color-coded highlighters lined up on the desk's edge. Post-it notes adorned the pages in neat rows, and to my surprise, he'd taped a copy of the study schedule to the wall above his desk, the hours blocked out in alternating colors.

"I thought I'd organize by subject," he explained, when he caught me looking. "Blue for statistics, yellow for psychology, green for literature. It's easier to focus."

I nodded, but said nothing, unwilling to break the spell by showing how fucking proud I was of him.

The household chores followed a similar pattern. The first time I reminded him to load the dishwasher after breakfast, he slouched over to the sink with the enthusiasm of a man approaching the gallows.

"I didn't realize 'boy' was just code for 'unpaid housekeeper,'" he muttered, clattering dishes with unnecessary force.