Page 48 of Tiny's Testament
She smiles faintly. “He trusts you.”
“Trust cuts both ways.” I drag a hand through my hair. “He’s right, though. I’ve got ghosts creeping too close to the gate.”
“Then stop standing at the door and open it.”
Her words linger between us. I turn toward her, and for a moment, I forget that the world is still on fire. The porch lighthighlights her eyes, making them appear gold. “You always this good at making sense?”
“Only when I’m not trying.”
Her smile fades just enough to show the worry behind it. “You look tired.”
“I am.”
“Then stop fighting everything alone.”
I don’t answer. The silence lingers, heavy and tense. She places her mug down and reaches for my hand. Her fingers are warm and steady.
“You ever just… stop running?” she asks.
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“I started again.”
She shifts closer. “Then stop now.”
The way she says it, it’s not a plea, it’s a command. And it breaks something in me I didn’t realize was still there. I brush a strand of hair from her face. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not.” Her voice softens. “But it’s easier when someone’s waiting.” Our eyes meet, the kind of look that pulls the ground out from under you.
The silence between us thickens, humming with all the words we’re too afraid to say. Somewhere inside, the jukebox hums a slow and steady blues track, heartbreak set to rhythm.
She shifts closer, the blanket slipping lower. “You ever get tired of pretending you’re made of stone?”
“Every day,” I admit.
“Then stop.” Her voice is soft, not a challenge but an invitation. The kind that doesn’t ask, itdraws you in.
I turn my hand, palm up, and she fits her fingers into mine like she’s done it a thousand times. For a long moment, that’s all there is. Her warmth against my skin, her breath mingling with mine, the creak of wood as we lean closer without meaning to.
When our lips meet, it’s tentative and cautious. A test, not a conquest. She tastes like coffee and fear and something I don’t have a name for. Something that feels a lot like home.
She pulls back first, eyes wide, uncertain. “Tiny…”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t think. Just be here, with me.”
I don’t need another invitation. The second kiss deepens, one that burns through hesitation and turns apology into promise. Her hands slide up my chest, clutching the front of my cut. Mine trace the edge of her jaw, the back of her neck, her hair slipping between my fingers like silk.
She exhales against my mouth, trembling. “You always this stubborn?”
“Only when it matters.”
The blanket pools around us. The world narrows to heat and breath, the soft scrape of denim, the sharp inhale when my thumb grazes the inside of her wrist. It’s the kind of closeness that demands honesty even when you have none left to give.
Her pulse flutters under my touch, a rapid drum that matches my own. When Syvannah presses her forehead to mine, I can feel the tremor in her breath, the question in her silence.
