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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."