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I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The walls of my shop—my sanctuary, my safe space—contracted until all I could see was his face, that small satisfied smile that meant he'd won this round. He'd walked into my territory and made me feel small without laying a finger on me.

"I’ll let you get back to work," he said at normal volume, stepping back like a gentleman. Like he hadn't just stripped three years of armor off me with words alone. "Think about that tattoo idea, won't you? About letting go? I have a feeling the right artist could make something really meaningful out of it."

He headed for the door with unhurried steps, pausing to examine one more piece—a sugar skull surrounded by marigolds that I'd been particularly proud of. "See you around, princess," he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

The bell chimed his exit with the same cheerful sound as his entrance, leaving me frozen at my station while my sanctuary filled back up with familiar sounds. Rick's machine started up again with a questioning look in my direction, but I just shookmy head. How could I explain that I'd just been eviscerated by someone who never raised his voice or made an actual threat?

I wanted Tyson. But how could I explain that nothing had actually happened? That Cruz had just . . . talked? Asked about a tattoo like any potential client? The subtle cruelty of it made me feel crazy, like I was overreacting to a completely normal interaction. Maybe I was. Maybe this was all in my head, reading threats into innocent words because I was too damaged to—

No. It wasn’t my fault and I wasn’t crazy. I texted Tyson, asking if he was free to come to the shop, and he instantly replied, “Be there in five.”

He arrived in four.

Clearly, I looked shaken, because he said, "Hey, hey. What happened?" He glanced at the rest of the shop, eyes narrowed with concern.

"Cruz," I whispered, the name scraping my throat raw. "He—he came in. Just talked but—but—"

Understanding dawned in those brown eyes, followed immediately by fury so cold it made me shiver. But his voice stayed gentle, controlled. "You're safe. He's gone."

I wanted his arms around me so badly—it was torture to be this close but not be able to feel his warmth.

"He pretended he didn't know I worked here." The words tumbled out in stuttering bursts. "Said he wanted a tattoo about letting go of the past. Called me—called me princess like he used to, like he still—"

"I understand." His voice had gone to granite, the kind of tone that promised violence to anyone who threatened what was his. "Mind games. His specialty."

He did understand. That was the miracle of it.

The floating feeling had started—that disconnection where I watched myself from the outside, everything too big and too loud and too much for the small thing I was becoming.

"Can't be big right now," I whispered. The admission felt like failure. I was supposed to be strong, independent, a badass tattoo artist who took no shit. Not this trembling thing that needed to be held.

"I know, baby. Let's get you home." Then he looked me in the eye with deadly sincerity. “I’ll handle Cruz. I swear it.”

My heart pounded. “Are you gonna hurt h—”

“Not your concern. You don’t ever need to think about him again.”

I felt Rick peer out from the back room, caught Tyson's subtle head shake that said 'not now,' appreciated how he protected my dignity even as I fell apart. The last thing I needed was witnesses to this unraveling.

“Now come on, let’s get you back to your place.”

Beingcarriedshouldhavemade me feel helpless. Instead, wrapped in Tyson's arms as he navigated my apartment stairs, I felt protected. My legs were too shaky to trust anyway, trembling with aftershocks of panic that wouldn't quite stop. He shouldered my door open with practiced ease, like carrying distraught women was part of his daily routine, though I knew better. Knew this tenderness was reserved for me.

He settled me on the couch with the kind of careful handling usually reserved for explosives. Appropriate, considering I felt about as stable as nitroglycerin. His weight dipped the cushions as he crouched in front of me, those tactical eyes scanning my face like a situation report.

"Lena, look at me."

I managed to drag my gaze up from where I'd been studying my hands—when had they gotten so small?—to meet his eyes. Brown like good coffee, steady like mountains. Real. Here. Notfour years ago in a different apartment with different hands holding me down.

"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?"