Page 67

The praise settled into my bones like warm honey. When Cruz had called me good girl, it had been edged with mockery, conditional on performing exactly right. But Tyson's praise came just for existing, for letting him care for me, for trusting him with this tender part of myself.

"Daddy, could you maybe . . ." I started, then stopped, embarrassment flooding through me. What I wanted felt toochildish, too needy, too much like taking advantage of his kindness.

"What do you need, baby?" He shifted slightly, angling his body toward mine so I could see his face clearly. Open. Patient. Safe. "Whatever it is, you can ask."

"Tell a story?" The words rushed out before I could stop them. "Not—not like a baby story. Just . . . happy. With a brave princess?"

My face burned with embarrassment. Twenty-eight years old and asking for bedtime stories like a kindergartener. But Tyson just smiled, this soft private thing that made my heart flutter even through the fog of little-space.

"I'd love to tell you a story." He adjusted his position, creating a perfect nook against his chest. "Come here, get comfortable."

I crawled into his lap without hesitation, all awkwardness disappearing in the face of offered comfort. He was so much bigger than me like this—I could curl up completely and still fit within the circle of his arms. The solid wall of his chest made the perfect backrest, his heartbeat steady and sure against my spine.

"Once upon a time," he began, voice dropping into that storyteller cadence that made everything else fade away, "there was a princess with purple hair who painted the world in colors."

A giggle bubbled up, unexpected and sweet.

"Everyone in the kingdom thought because she was small, she wasn't strong," he continued, one hand rubbing slow circles on my back through the blanket. "They saw her delicate hands and tiny stature and assumed she needed protecting. But they didn't know her secret . . ."

"What secret?" I whispered, already lost in the story despite myself.

"The princess could paint emotions into being. When she was happy, she'd paint sunflowers that actually turned toward joy. When she was sad, she'd paint rain that washed away sorrow.And when she was angry . . ." He paused dramatically, making me squirm with anticipation. "She'd paint storms that revealed truth."

My thumb crept toward my mouth without conscious thought, an old self-soothing habit I'd forced myself to break years ago.

"It's okay," he murmured, catching the movement. "Whatever helps you feel safe."

My thumb found its way between my lips and the relief was immediate, this primal comfort I'd denied myself for so long. Tyson just kept telling the story, his voice weaving magic around us while I sucked my thumb and drank apple juice and felt younger than I had in decades.

"The kingdom was being plagued by shadows," he continued, voice taking on a darker tone that made me press closer. "These shadows whispered lies to people, made them believe they were worthless, made them forget their own light. The king tried to fight them with swords, but how do you stab a shadow? The wizards tried spells, but shadows just laughed at magic that wasn't their own."

The shadows sounded familiar. Like voices in my head that said I was too much, not enough, broken beyond repair. I shivered despite the warm blanket, and Tyson's arms tightened protectively.

"But the princess, she understood something the others didn't. Shadows only have power in darkness. So she took her brushes and her bravest colors, and she began to paint. Not weapons or walls, but light itself. She painted lanterns that held memories of laughter. She painted stars that sang songs of self-worth. She painted a sun that remembered every single person's name."

My eyes had gone heavy, the combination of juice and comfort and Tyson's rhythmic breathing making me drowsy. But I fought to stay awake, needing to know how it ended. Needing to know the princess won.

"The shadows tried to stop her, of course. They whispered that she was too small, too weak, that her art was silly decoration in the face of real darkness. But every stroke of her brush proved them wrong. Because the princess had learned the most important secret of all . . ."

"What?" I asked around my thumb, the word muffled but understandable.

"That being small doesn't mean being weak. That needing help doesn't mean being broken. That the brightest lights often come in the tiniest packages." His lips pressed against the top of my head, gentle and grounding. "The princess painted until the whole kingdom glowed with inner light, until the shadows had nowhere left to hide. And when the people finally saw her true strength, they didn't call her small anymore. They called her their salvation."

The story settled over me like another blanket, warm and protective and somehow exactly what I'd needed to hear. My thumb slipped from my mouth as I yawned, utterly spent from the emotional upheaval of the day.

"Better?" Tyson asked softly.

I nodded against his chest, too drowsy and content for words.

"You tell good stories, Daddy," I managed, words slurring with encroaching sleep.

"Anytime you need them." His hand hadn't stopped its soothing circles on my back. "Think you could eat? Mac and cheese?"

The mention of food made my stomach remind me that I'd skipped lunch. Mac and cheese sounded perfect. Warm and comfortable and exactly right for how little I felt.

"With extra cheese?" I asked hopefully, turning to look up at him with what I hoped were convincing puppy eyes.

His laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating against my back in the best way. "All the cheese in the world, baby. Whatever you need."