“I know.” Tiny’s voice breaks. “I know.”
He pulls me closer, and I collapse against him, sobbing until there’s nothing left.
For a long time, we just sit there on the cold tile floor, water pooling around us. Peanut is meowing somewhere outside the door like she knows something’s wrong.
When Tiny finally speaks again, his tone’s softer, wrecked. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I scared myself.”
He tilts my chin up, eyes searching mine. “You can’t keep doing this alone.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“Yeah, you were.” He sighs, brushing wet hair from my face. “You always do.”
The silence that follows feels sacred. Heavy but human. For the first time, I see Tiny clearly, not as the man who saved me, but as the man who’s still fighting to save himself.
His gentleness isn’t a weakness. It’s armor. The kind that comes from surviving too many fires and walking out, burned but still breathing.
Tiny presses a towel against my skin again, careful, methodical. His fingers tremble when they touch mine.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he says quietly. “You hear me? You’re staying.”
I nod, voice barely a whisper. “Only if you do, too.”
Something flashes in his expression. Pain, maybe hope, but he doesn’t answer. He just keeps holding me, both of us shaking, two broken things clinging to each other in a world that won’t stop breaking.
When the water finally runs clear, and my heartbeat evens out, he helps me stand. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you warm.”
When Tiny gently wraps a dry towel around me, I realize I’m crying again. Not from shame. This time, the tears feel different, like something inside me is thawing instead of breaking.
7
TINY
The bathroom’s still wet when I carry Syvannah to her room. The smell of bleach, sweat, and faint metal clings to us. Her skin is cold against my chest, damp and trembling, her body too light in my arms. She’s half-conscious, mumbling fragments that don’t make sense, her breath shallow but steady enough to keep me from breaking.
I lower her onto the bed and pull the blanket over her, tucking it beneath her chin like I’m afraid the air itself might hurt her. She flinches even in sleep. The soft, broken sounds she makes lodge deep in my ribs.
The clock ticks. The world outside keeps turning, but I stay right here. Peanut curls up on the bed near Syvannah’s hand, purring low, a sound that anchors the silence. Every few minutes, Syvannah whimpers. Dreams or withdrawals, I can’t tell. Her skin is slick with sweat. Her lips part as if she’s trying to say something, but no sound comes.
I grab a damp cloth, wipe her forehead, and whisper things I don’t even believe anymore. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re not alone.”
The words feel empty, but I keep saying them because I need them to be true.
Her body jerks hard, her breath catching, then eases again. The tremors slow, then start up again. Every shake reminds me how close I came to losing her and how useless I’d be if I did. I’ve seen men detox in worse states, brothers coming off adrenaline and painkillers. But this feels different. With them, the fight stays in their eyes. With her, it’s like the fight’s been burning too long.
Every hour feels like a year.
At some point, I realize dawn’s bleeding through the blinds. My coffee’s cold, my neck’s stiff, and I can’t feel my right leg, but I don’t move. If I do, she might wake up and realize I’ve been here, and I’m not sure what that’ll mean for either of us.
The door creaks sometime after dawn. I haven’t slept a wink, just stayed by Syvannah’s side, watching her, making sure she makes it through the night.
Capone’s shadow fills the hallway before he steps inside, the smell of cigarette smoke and stale coffee trailing him like a second skin. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands in the doorway, jaw working, watching the rise and fall of Syvannah’s chest beneath the blanket. He takes one look at her, then one at me, and I can see it in his face. Anger first, then pity, then the heavy disappointment that doesn’t need words.
“How bad?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.
“She’s stable now.” I swallow hard. “Barely.”