Chapter 11 #2

"There you are." His voice was cookie-warm, grounding. "I need to take care of you. Remember what we talked about? About being little?"

The word made something loosen in my chest. Little. Not weak or broken or too much. Just . . . little. Needing care that he'd already promised to provide. My throat felt thick as I nodded, tears spilling over without permission.

"Never really done it," I admitted, voice coming out smaller than intended. "Not with another person. Just . . . felt it sometimes."

Alone in my apartment at three AM, sucking my thumb and clutching Shelly while shame battled with comfort.

Coloring books hidden like contraband. The rainbow stickers I collected but never used.

But this—having someone see it, acknowledge it, participate in it—was terrifying and wonderful and too much and not enough all at once.

"That's okay. We'll figure it out together." No judgment in his tone, just that steady patience that made me want to curl up in his lap and never leave. "What do you need right now?"

Such a simple question. Such an impossible answer. How did I explain that everything felt too sharp, too bright, like the world had forgotten to round its edges? That my skin felt sizes too big and my bones felt made of glass?

"Soft things," I whispered, mortified by how young I sounded. "And—and maybe you could stay close? Talk soft? Everything's too loud in my head."

The inside of my skull was a stadium full of screaming, Cruz's voice on endless repeat mixing with my own self-doubt until I couldn't separate threat from thought. But when Tyson talked, low and careful, it pushed the noise back. Made space for breathing.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised, already standing with purpose.

I tracked his movement through the apartment, cataloging his easy navigation of my space.

He knew where things were now—which drawer held the soft throw blankets, which shelf housed my collection of stuffed animals I pretended were just decorative.

He returned with my fuzzy purple blanket, the one that felt like clouds and safety, and Shelly (who didn’t live in a guitar case any more) tucked under one arm.

The juice box in his other hand broke me.

Apple juice. The kind with the cartoon animals on the box that no self-respecting adult should drink.

"Oh," I breathed, fresh tears starting. "Where did you—"

"Shh. Can’t a Daddy have some secrets?" He wrapped me in the blanket with efficient care, making sure the soft side was against my skin. "There we go. All safe and cozy."

Shelly settled against my chest and I clutched her automatically, muscle memory from a thousand other bad nights.

"I'm sorry," tumbled out anyway. "For being like this."

"No apologies." Firm but gentle, like everything else about his care. "Everyone needs to feel small sometimes. I'm honored you're letting me help."

Honored. Like my mess was a gift instead of a burden. The concept was so foreign I could only blink at him, processing this new reality where needing things didn't mean owing things.

He settled beside me on the couch, solid warmth along my side, and I listed toward him like a plant seeking sun.

The floaty feeling wasn't scary with him anchoring me.

Usually when I felt this young, this vulnerable, panic followed close behind.

But Tyson's presence created a bubble of safety, keeping the sharp edges of the world at bay.

"That's my girl," he murmured when I let my head rest on his shoulder. "Just let yourself feel what you need to feel. I've got you."

The permission to just . . . be . . . was heady. No performance required. No strength to fake. Just me, small and scared and held, while someone else stood guard against the monsters.

"Thank you," I whispered into Shelly's worn fabric.

"Always, baby girl. Always."

The world had gone soft around the edges, like looking through frosted glass or maybe tears. Everything seemed bigger when I felt this small—the couch stretched endless beneath me, the ceiling floated miles overhead, and Tyson beside me was a mountain of safety I could hide against.

"How old do you feel?" Tyson's voice came quiet and careful, no judgment in it, just genuine need to understand where I was so he could meet me there.

The question made my chest tight. How did I explain the weird age-flux happening in my head?

Part of me was still twenty-eight, hyperaware of how ridiculous this must look—grown woman clutching a stuffed tortoise while the man she was sleeping with witnessed her complete meltdown.

But that part felt distant, muffled under the thick blanket of little-space that had settled over me like fog.

I lifted one hand from Shelly, fingers trembling as I held them up. Five. Then added one more, uncertain. Six? Maybe five? The numbers felt slippery in my brain, hard to pin down when everything was filtered through this lens of needing-to-be-small.

"Six? Maybe five?" My voice came out tiny, matching how I felt. "Is that—is that okay?"

Shame tried to creep in at the edges, whispering about how fucked up this was, how no normal person regressed to childhood when stressed. But Tyson's face lit up with something soft and pleased, like I'd given him a gift instead of a burden.

"That's perfect. You're being so brave telling me." His movements were slow and deliberate as he picked up the juice box, giving me time to track what he was doing. No surprises. No sudden changes. Just steady, predictable care that made my chest loosen fraction by fraction.

The crinkle of the straw wrapper was loud in the quiet apartment. He freed the straw with practiced efficiency—had he done this before? For someone else? The thought made something small and jealous flare in my chest before his next words soothed it away.

"Never really taken care of someone who's little," he admitted, like he'd read my mind. "But I've been reading. Researching. Want to do this right for you."

He'd researched. This big, dangerous man had sat at his computer googling how to take care of littles because he wanted to do right by me. Fresh tears pricked my eyes but they were different from before. Softer. Warmer.

The straw slipped into the juice box with a satisfying little pop.

He held it out to me, patient while I shifted General Sparkles to free one hand.

The first sip of apple juice hit my tongue sweet and familiar, exactly right for how young I felt.

Not wine or coffee or any of the grown-up drinks that lived in my fridge.

Just simple apple juice that tasted like elementary school lunch boxes and easier times.

"Good girl," he murmured when I drank without prompting. "That's my sweet girl, taking care of yourself."

The praise settled into my bones like warm honey. When Cruz had called me good girl, it had been edged with mockery, conditional on performing exactly right. But Tyson's praise came just for existing, for letting him care for me, for trusting him with this tender part of myself.

"Daddy, could you maybe . . ." I started, then stopped, embarrassment flooding through me. What I wanted felt too childish, too needy, too much like taking advantage of his kindness.

"What do you need, baby?" He shifted slightly, angling his body toward mine so I could see his face clearly. Open. Patient. Safe. "Whatever it is, you can ask."

"Tell a story?" The words rushed out before I could stop them. "Not—not like a baby story. Just . . . happy. With a brave princess?"

My face burned with embarrassment. Twenty-eight years old and asking for bedtime stories like a kindergartener. But Tyson just smiled, this soft private thing that made my heart flutter even through the fog of little-space.

"I'd love to tell you a story." He adjusted his position, creating a perfect nook against his chest. "Come here, get comfortable."

I crawled into his lap without hesitation, all awkwardness disappearing in the face of offered comfort.

He was so much bigger than me like this—I could curl up completely and still fit within the circle of his arms. The solid wall of his chest made the perfect backrest, his heartbeat steady and sure against my spine.

"Once upon a time," he began, voice dropping into that storyteller cadence that made everything else fade away, "there was a princess with purple hair who painted the world in colors."

A giggle bubbled up, unexpected and sweet.

"Everyone in the kingdom thought because she was small, she wasn't strong," he continued, one hand rubbing slow circles on my back through the blanket. "They saw her delicate hands and tiny stature and assumed she needed protecting. But they didn't know her secret . . ."

"What secret?" I whispered, already lost in the story despite myself.

"The princess could paint emotions into being.

When she was happy, she'd paint sunflowers that actually turned toward joy.

When she was sad, she'd paint rain that washed away sorrow.

And when she was angry . . ." He paused dramatically, making me squirm with anticipation.

"She'd paint storms that revealed truth. "

My thumb crept toward my mouth without conscious thought, an old self-soothing habit I'd forced myself to break years ago.

"It's okay," he murmured, catching the movement. "Whatever helps you feel safe."

My thumb found its way between my lips and the relief was immediate, this primal comfort I'd denied myself for so long. Tyson just kept telling the story, his voice weaving magic around us while I sucked my thumb and drank apple juice and felt younger than I had in decades.

"The kingdom was being plagued by shadows," he continued, voice taking on a darker tone that made me press closer.

"These shadows whispered lies to people, made them believe they were worthless, made them forget their own light.

The king tried to fight them with swords, but how do you stab a shadow?

The wizards tried spells, but shadows just laughed at magic that wasn't their own. "

The shadows sounded familiar. Like voices in my head that said I was too much, not enough, broken beyond repair. I shivered despite the warm blanket, and Tyson's arms tightened protectively.

"But the princess, she understood something the others didn't. Shadows only have power in darkness.

So she took her brushes and her bravest colors, and she began to paint.

Not weapons or walls, but light itself. She painted lanterns that held memories of laughter.

She painted stars that sang songs of self-worth.

She painted a sun that remembered every single person's name. "

My eyes had gone heavy, the combination of juice and comfort and Tyson's rhythmic breathing making me drowsy. But I fought to stay awake, needing to know how it ended. Needing to know the princess won.

"The shadows tried to stop her, of course. They whispered that she was too small, too weak, that her art was silly decoration in the face of real darkness. But every stroke of her brush proved them wrong. Because the princess had learned the most important secret of all . . ."

"What?" I asked around my thumb, the word muffled but understandable.

"That being small doesn't mean being weak.

That needing help doesn't mean being broken.

That the brightest lights often come in the tiniest packages.

" His lips pressed against the top of my head, gentle and grounding.

"The princess painted until the whole kingdom glowed with inner light, until the shadows had nowhere left to hide.

And when the people finally saw her true strength, they didn't call her small anymore. They called her their salvation."

The story settled over me like another blanket, warm and protective and somehow exactly what I'd needed to hear. My thumb slipped from my mouth as I yawned, utterly spent from the emotional upheaval of the day.

"Better?" Tyson asked softly.

I nodded against his chest, too drowsy and content for words.

"You tell good stories, Daddy," I managed, words slurring with encroaching sleep.

"Anytime you need them." His hand hadn't stopped its soothing circles on my back. "Think you could eat? Mac and cheese?"

The mention of food made my stomach remind me that I'd skipped lunch. Mac and cheese sounded perfect. Warm and comfortable and exactly right for how little I felt.

"With extra cheese?" I asked hopefully, turning to look up at him with what I hoped were convincing puppy eyes.

His laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating against my back in the best way. "All the cheese in the world, baby. Whatever you need."

Whatever I needed. Such a simple promise that felt revolutionary after years of having my needs minimized, mocked, weaponized against me. But here in Tyson's arms, feeling five-maybe-six and perfectly safe about it, I believed him.

I believed in princesses who painted light into being.

I believed in protectors who told stories and made mac and cheese.

I believed in being small and strong at the same time.

Most of all, I believed that maybe, finally, I'd found someone who saw all of me—big and little and everything in between—and thought every part was worth protecting.

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