The Paddle Pact – Part 1: The Rules

The paddle had been a joke, at first. Owen had bought it at a market stall in Bath, grinning, and wrapped it in newspaper like a present.

"It's a cutting board," Hattie had said.

"It's a cutting board with ambitions," he'd said, and put it on the kitchen shelf, where it had sat for three weeks, becoming more and more noticeable.

Now it lay on the wooden table between them, beside two mugs of tea and a sheet of lined paper covered in both of their handwriting. The kitchen window looked out over the wet rooftops of Bristol. The radiator ticked.

"Rule one," Hattie read aloud. "Dishes left in the sink are a punishment offence."

"Agreed. Your turn to pick the punishment."

"Ten swats. Over the jeans. And you have to do the dishes for a week while singing whatever I choose."

"That's cruel and unusual."

"It's fair. You left the pan for two days."

He laughed and wrote 10 swats, singing in his messy capitals. Hattie watched him, the way his shoulders relaxed when they were being silly, and felt the old fondness rise up warm in her chest.

They had talked about this for months, mostly late at night, mostly in the dark. Neither of them was a stranger to the idea. They had both read more than they'd admit, and both had quietly wondered whether it was a thing they could do together without it turning awkward. Tonight they had decided to find out with a pen and paper.

"Safe words," Owen said. "Red stops everything. Yellow means slow down and talk. Green is go."

"Green is go," Hattie repeated, and tapped the paper. "And we agree that the game ends if either of us says so. No sulking."

"No sulking. I'm very bad at sulking, I'll have you know."

"You're very good at it. You sulked for a whole afternoon about the football."

"That was a tactical sulk."

She reached for his hand across the table, and he took it, his thumb moving over her knuckles.

"Rule two," she said. "Nothing that leaves a mark we'd have to explain to your mother."

"Agreed." He grinned. "Rule three. Nobody gets punished in public. Not even a little."

"Rule four," Hattie said, and her voice caught slightly. "Whoever asks for the paddle has to ask out loud. We don't just leave it lying around as a hint."

Owen looked at the paddle for a long moment. Then he looked back at her.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Do you actually want this, or do you just want to make me happy?"

It was a good question. Hattie had asked herself the same thing in the bath last night, with the water going cold around her.

"I want to try it," she said honestly. "I want to be the one who sets the rules, sometimes. I want you to be the one who has to listen. And I want to laugh while we do it."

"Then that's what we'll do," Owen said. He wrote Hattie asks, Owen listens at the bottom of the page, underlined it, and signed his name.

She signed underneath him. Then she picked up the paddle, weighed it in her hand, and set it down again.

"Not tonight," she said. "Tonight we just read the rules together."

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow," Hattie agreed, and kissed him over the cold tea.