Chapter Four
Tiny
I wrestled the massive Fraser fir through the door of Haven, pine needles showering down my vest like green rain.
Behind me, Xavier struggled with the base, his teenage arms straining against the weight.
“Where do you want this monster?” I asked Violet, who was hurrying toward us with a look of barely contained excitement.
She pointed to the far corner. “Over there, by the big windows.”
Perfect. The spot gave clear views of both the main entrance and the hallway leading to the residential wing.
I nodded and maneuvered the tree across the room, careful not to knock over furniture with the tree or my wide frame.
Xavier followed, carrying the stand and grumbling under his breath about pine sap on his favorite boots.
“It’s not like they won’t clean,” Tillie, Xavier’s woman, teased him before looping her arm through his and leading him off.
I’d missed my friend when we’d been separated after he’d been released. Finding out he was back on the inside just as I was getting out had been hard. Thankfully, he was back with me now, and with a woman he clearly adored.
“Mom said you’d need help with the decorations.” Caleb grinned as he trotted over from the other side of the room. “The boxes are still in your truck.”
“We’ll get them after we set this up,” I replied, positioning the tree exactly where Violet had indicated.
The excited murmur of voices grew as residents began to notice our arrival.
A few women gathered at a cautious distance, their children less hesitant as they darted forward, eyes wide at the enormous tree.
I knelt to secure the trunk in the stand, my movements deliberate and slow, always mindful of how my size could intimidate.
“Is that a real tree?” A small boy, maybe six, inched closer, his curious eyes fixed on the pine.
“Sure is,” I said, keeping my voice soft, my body hunched slightly to appear smaller. “Want to help me straighten it?”
He looked back at his mother, who gave a tight nod from several feet away. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her coffee mug, but she took a deep breath and smiled, nodding again at the child.
As I adjusted the tree, the door opened again, and several club members filed in carrying boxes of ornaments, lights, and garlands.
Several of them pretended to juggle their loads like they were about to drop them when they stumbled, which delighted the kids to no end.
Knight had organized this whole thing, insisting that Haven deserved a proper Christmas.
The residents deserved it. The kids especially. We all agreed with him.
“Hey, big man,” Knight called, setting down a particularly large box. “Got the whole North Pole in my truck. Need some elves to help unload.”
I straightened up, rolling my shoulders to release some tension, and that’s when I noticed her. Penny stood in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand resting lightly on the frame as if ready to pull back at any moment. Her eyes weren’t on the tree or the decorations. They were on me.
I gave her a slight nod of acknowledgment. She returned it, a barely perceptible dip of her chin and a ghost of a smile before she slipped back into the kitchen.
Caleb returned with Zelda and Kira in tow, each carrying a small box of decorations.
The twins had changed in the weeks since they’d arrived.
Though still cautious, both girls looked less haunted around the edges.
Zelda still positioned herself slightly in front of her sister, and Kira still clutched that threadbare rabbit when she felt uncertain, but they’d begun to unbend a little, like plants slowly turning toward the sun.
“Here,” Knight said, thrusting a tangle of Christmas lights into my hands. “Make yourself useful.”
I stared down at the snarl of green wire and tiny bulbs, my massive fingers suddenly feeling like blunt instruments.
I’d been pretty Goddamned big my whole life and had basically taught myself to do intricate work.
But there was something about these delicate strands of Christmas lights that made me acutely aware of my size.
“Maybe I should handle the heavy lifting instead,” I suggested, looking at the mess dubiously.
“Nope.” Knight grinned. “Consider it fine motor skill practice.”
I sighed and settled on the floor, spreading the lights out around me. My boots were larger than some of the ornament boxes, my hands dwarfing the fragile bulbs as I carefully began to separate the strands. A few of the braver children edged closer, watching with fascination.
“Can I help?” Kira asked, her voice so soft I almost missed it.
I looked up, careful not to make any sudden movements. “I’d appreciate that. These fingers aren’t made for untangling.”
She knelt down several feet away. Close enough to help, far enough to bolt if needed.
Then she began working on one end of the tangle.
We worked in silence for a few minutes, her nimble fingers making quick progress while mine fumbled with the tiny wires.
It wasn’t long before she was giggling at me.
I winked at her, then gave a mock frown and she really started giggling.
More residents filtered into the common room, drawn by the carefree sound of Kira’s laughter, and probably the promise of Christmas.
One of the strand’s plastic hooks snagged on my calloused palm, and I muttered “shit” under my breath before catching myself.
“Sorry,” I said quickly, glancing around to make sure no kids had heard.
Kira looked up, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “My mom says worse when she thinks we’re not listening.”
The casual comment startled a laugh from me, a deep rumble that seemed to surprise her as much as it did me. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t retreat.
Across the room, I caught Penny watching us again, her gaze traveling from her daughter to me and back again.
There was wariness there still, but something else too.
Something that looked almost like hope, fragile and uncertain.
Our eyes met briefly, and I felt a strange tightening in my chest. I looked away first, suddenly finding the Christmas lights absolutely fascinating.
“There,” Kira announced, holding up her now-untangled section with a grin. “All fixed.”
“Thanks,” I said, genuinely grateful. “You’ve got a real talent there.”
The faintest smile touched her lips before she ducked her head, but not before I caught it. Small victories. Sometimes those were the only kind worth counting.
As the common room filled with the sounds of excited chatter and Christmas music, I continued my silent watch, even as I helped arrange ornament boxes and move furniture to accommodate the decorating.
Protecting this small pocket of safety, ensuring these women and children could experience one Christmas without fear might not be my redemption, exactly, but it felt like a good purpose.
Now, I stood on the step ladder, stringing lights around the upper branches of the tree, when I felt someone watching me.
I glanced down to find Zelda standing a few feet away, a glittery star ornament clutched in her hand.
Her stance was different than usual, less defensive and more uncertain.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her dark eyes studying me with wary intensity.
I finished securing the strand of lights I was working on, then slowly descended the ladder, making each movement deliberate and predictable. With Zelda, as with many of the people here, sudden movements could shatter fragile trust in an instant.
“Need some help?” I asked, keeping my voice low enough that only she could hear. Private communication, no audience, no pressure.
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she examined the ornament in her hand, a five-pointed star covered in silver glitter that caught the light with each small movement.
Finally, she looked up at me. “It’s too high,” she said, gesturing toward a specific branch about halfway up the tree. “I want it right there.”
Her directness surprised me. Not “Can you help me?” or “Would you put this up?” but a simple statement of what she wanted. No room for refusal, no vulnerability in asking. Smart kid.
“I can reach that,” I said, matching her matter-of-factness.
She held out the ornament, and I cupped my palm beneath her hand, letting her drop it into my waiting fingers rather than taking it from her.
But instead of the quick release I expected, her fingers brushed against mine as she carefully placed the star in my palm.
The contact lasted only a second, but its significance wasn’t lost on me.
From a girl who flinched when men came within three feet of her, this deliberate touch felt monumental.
I closed my fingers gently around the ornament, careful not to crush the delicate hook. “This spot right here?” I confirmed, pointing to the branch she’d indicated.
She nodded, watching intently as I reached up, positioning the star exactly where she wanted it. The branch was sturdy enough to support the ornament’s weight, situated where the light from the windows would catch its glitter throughout the day. Not a random choice at all.
“Perfect,” I said, stepping back to view it.
“It’s not perfect,” Zelda replied immediately, but there was no bite in her words. Then, so quietly I nearly missed it, she added, “But it’s good.”
Something tightened in my chest, an unexpected swell of emotion I hadn’t felt in years.
It wasn’t just about hanging an ornament.
It was about being trusted with something she cared about, being allowed to help rather than being seen as a threat.
For a kid who’d learned the hard way that men weren’t safe, this small act of inclusion hit me harder than I was prepared for.
I cleared my throat. “Got any more you want up high?”