Page 93 of Tiny's Testament
She pats the bench beside her. When I sit, she threads her fingers through mine without hesitation.
“Good,” she murmurs. “You can let someone else carry things now.”
I rest my forehead lightly against hers. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin, and the steady certainty in her voice sink deep enough to steady everything inside me.
She leans close, her voice barely above a breath. “Welcome back.”
My fingers tighten around hers. “I’m home.”
23
SYVANNAH
The scent of warm lumber drifts across the compound, softened by sawdust and late sunlight. Tiny’s hoodie hangs loose on my shoulders, its sleeves long enough to cover my hands, the hem falling past the bottom of my shorts. The fabric carries the smell of his skin and the faint bite of motor oil.
Peanut trots at my feet, her tail high, as if she owns every inch of the ground she steps on. The laughter from the garage rolls across the space in a steady, chaotic rhythm. It should overwhelm me, but it doesn’t. It holds me.
Peanut hops onto the bench near the garage before I reach it, circles twice, then settles into my lap. Her weight is small, warm, and grounding. She presses her head under my hand, nudging until I stroke between her ears.
“Pushy girl,” I whisper. She purrs like an engine in response.
Trigger’s voice cuts through the noise from the bay. “Blayze, if you switch the playlist one more time, I swear I will take that phone and donate it to charity.”
Blayze fires back. “It is outlaw country.”
“No,” Red shouts. “It is a grown man crying into a whiskey barrel. We are listening to Pearl Jam.”
“Oh, eat something rotten, Red.”
Torch slams his welding mask up. “Both of you shut it. The next person who changes my settings is getting welded to a support beam.”
Bones and Dagger laugh so hard I can feel the bench vibrate. The noise isn’t sharp today. It doesn’t slice. It settles.
Tiny stands across the lot, grease staining his forearms as he talks with Capone. He glances over, just a single flick of his eyes, but it lands on me like a grounding stone. His shoulders ease. My breath does too.
Healing comes in moments like that. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just real.
A door shuts nearby. Nadia walks toward me, her hair pulled into a messy bun, a coffee mug clutched between both hands. She sits beside me without waiting for an invitation.
“You sleep any better?” she asks.
“A little.” I exhale slowly. “Peanut sat on my chest half the night like she was daring nightmares to try something.”
Nadia smiles and nudges my knee with hers. “She’s a menace. A tiny menace with a God complex.” Peanut chirps at Nadia as if she offended her. Nadia smirks. “See no humility at all.”
“Where would she get that?” I ask, pretending innocence.
Nadia lifts a brow. “Certainly not from you.”
My cheeks warm. I look down, scratching Peanut’s chin. “I don’t feel confident.”
“That’s not what confidence is,” Nadia says softly. “Confidence is showing up even when everything inside you tells you to run. And you show up every day.”
Her words settle somewhere deep.
She sets her mug aside and reaches into her bag. “I brought something for you.”
It is a folded blue and white pamphlet titled “Therapy Animal Certification: Cats, Dogs, and Small Companion Animals.”
