The first time the words left his lips, I thought he was talking to someone else. I had been startled by the way he looked at me, his eyes were the softest I'd ever seen them, he placed his hand on my shoulder and I could only blink in response. I had never been regarded in such a way, but I took it and held it close. He smiled at me, and for a small moment, I believed he meant it. ''Baby,'' he beckoned affectionately, ''Don't leave.''
The second time he said it, I was hanging off the side of my bed. I was reaching for a book that I had thrown off my bed in a fit of laughter, and he grabbed my wrist just before gravity could snatch me downwards. It slipped from his mouth in a fit of hushed humor, I glared at him anyways. ''Baby, you're so off balance.''
The third time he said it, we were hovering 30 yards above the ground and he was taunting me. The word was as sweet as honey as it graced his tongue, but his words, they burned. I smiled at him, regardless. ''We have all of this power and he's acting like a child. You're my baby.''
The fourth time, he was lying in my bed with his clothes littering my floor. My door was locked and shut, but I lingered near it. I listened for the heavy footsteps of my father to meet the hallway towards my bedroom, I waited to be caught. ''Nothing's gonna hurt you, baby,'' he told me, and the anxiety that ruled in my chest was smothered by something unidentifiable. I moved away from the door, towards him.
The fifth time, we were sitting on the roof of his home. We were looking out into his suburban neighborhood, watching the lights in houses flicker out as the streets are flourished in ghostly, yellow lighting. I am leaning into him and I listen to the soft thump of his heart. ''I could spend all night out here with you, baby.''
The sixth time, it's over the phone. It's midnight and I'm falling asleep as he speaks to me about his history homework. He grumbles, his voice accompanied by a slight static, ''Go to bed, baby, before you die from exhaustion.'' I clicked the end call button after a hummed agreement and smiled like a child into my pillow.
The seventh time, it's between kisses and Matt is calling his cell phone. ''Baby,'' he gasps, connecting his lips back to mine, ''should - we - answer - that?'' I never replied.
The eighth time, I am drowsy with medication and I'm lying against his chest. I'm mumbling incessantly, but he run his fingers through my hair and lazily agrees to my nonsense, ''Whatever you say, baby.''
The ninth time, Matt is rambling about the questionable philanthropy of the human race. Steve looks over to me, exasperated, ''Let's get out of here before Matt starts going bonkers, eh, baby?''
The tenth time, I question him. ''Why do you keep calling me that?'' the words feel strange as they leave my mouth, as if I weren't supposed to say them.
''Because,'' Steve replies, not even looking up at me, ''You're my baby.''
And I stop counting.