I lift my head slightly, watching him. His eyes are on the ceiling, unfocused. His jaw is tight.
I press my palm to his chest. “Talk to me.”
Tiny’s eyes close for a long moment. Then he exhales, long and rough. “I’m scared,” he admits.
The words surprise me because he doesn’t say fear out loud. Tiny carries fear like it’s a shame. He turns it into control. Into plans. Into violence directed outward. He doesn’t let it live in the open where someone could see it.
I shift up onto my elbow, bracing myself so I can look at him fully. Peanut grumbles at the movement, then settles again. “What are you scared of?” I ask softly.
Tiny’s eyes open, finally meeting mine. The look in them makes my chest ache. It’s awe. It’s disbelief. It’s a man staring at the thing he never thought he could have, wondering when the universe will rip it away.
“I’m scared,” he repeats, his voice low and raw. “I don’t know how to hold something good without ruining it.” Tiny swallows hard, as if he can’t stop once the words start coming. “I’ve had brothers. I’ve had the club. I’ve had rides. I’ve had fights. I’ve had purpose. But love like this?” His voice cracks slightly. “This makes me feel like I’ve got something to lose I can’t replace.”
I slide my hand up his neck and cup his jaw, forcing him to meet my gaze. Tiny’s breath shakes. His eyes flick away for half a second, as if he can’t stand the vulnerability of being seen. I keep my hand there until he looks back.
“I keep thinking,” he confesses, “that it’s gonna be taken. That I’m gonna wake up and you’ll be gone because I didn’t deserve it, and the world finally caught up.”
I brush my thumb across his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
Tiny’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” I whisper. “Because I’m choosing it.”
“I’m not a good man,” he says suddenly. “You know that, right? I’ve done things. I’ve hurt people. I’ve been the monster under someone else’s bed. I’ve been the man who makes other men warn their daughters to stay inside. I don’t want that darkness anywhere near you.”
I lean in, voice firm. “Tiny. You don’t get to decide what I can handle,” I say. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve. You do not get to look at me like I’m fragile while you carry everything alone.”
Tiny’s breathing turns uneven. I press my forehead to his. “You are not protecting me by shutting me out,” I whisper. “You’re punishing yourself. And I’m not going to let you do that anymore.”
Tiny’s eyes close. A tear slips free. The sight of it feels like my heart is cracking. Tiny doesn’t cry. He turns his face slightly, ashamed.
I cup his face tighter and pull him back to me. “Look at me,” I demand softly.
He does.
“You are not your worst day,” I tell him. “You are not your worst choice. You are not the things you did while you were surviving. You are who you are right now, and right now you are the man who held me while I shook and never made me feel like a burden.”
Tiny’s throat bobs.
“You’re the man who sat with me on the bathroom floor when I was sick and didn’t look disgusted,” I continue, my voice thick. “You’re the man who kept water by my bed, who stayed sober with me when I needed stability, and who didn’t take advantage of my weakness.”
His eyes burn, wet and open.
“You’re the man who looked at me like I was worth gentleness,” I whisper. “No one ever did that before you.”
Tiny’s breath breaks, and he pulls me into him. His arms lock around me like a cage, but it doesn’t feel like imprisonment. It feels like a man hanging on for dear life.
I wrap my arms around his neck, holding him. Tiny buries his face in my shoulder. His body shakes with emotion he has kept inside for too long.
Tiny pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes devastated. “I love you,” he says, as if it’s a confession.
I smile through tears. “I love you, too.” I whisper against his lips, “I’ve been taken from myself a hundred times. I’ve been reduced to pain. I’ve been made into a thing, not a person. But you gave me myself back. You didn’t save me. You didn’t swoop in to fix me or make me dependent on you. You stood beside me and said,‘Here. Take your power back.’You reminded me I get to choose.”
Tiny’s breath shudders.
“So when I say I’m not leaving, I mean it. I’m not running. I’m not hiding. I’m not drowning to escape the past.” I touch his face, making him look at me. “I’m here. I’m present. I’m yours in the only way that matters. I choose you. Every day. Even when you’re scared. Even when you’re angry. Even when you go quiet. I will choose you.”
Tiny’s eyes close, and another tear slips free. He kisses my palm, then presses my hand to his mouth like he is praying into it. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.