He looked at my lips, and I knew he wanted to kiss me again. Suddenly, nervousness took over my chest. It rippled through my core in tight waves. My breathing quickened.
I liked him too much. I was falling. Too fast. We were supposed to be pretending.
He must have sensed my anxiety because his hand gently moved up to my arm and stayed there, steady, warm, comforting. My breathing slowed, and I suddenly blurted out, “I want to get a tattoo.”
His brows rose. “Oh, yeah?”
I nodded, chewing the inside of my cheek. “Over my scar. I’m tired of knowing it’s there.”
“You sure?”
I nodded again. He watched me, his eyes hooded, and then he said, “Alright. Let’s go.”
It was so decisive, it startled me.
“Wait, what?”
He didn’t ask why. He didn’t try to fix me. He just stood, pulling a dark shirt over his head, jeans half-buttoned, hair a mess from sleep, morning light kissing the curve of his back.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
He meant it. No hesitation, no judgment, just support. The ache in my chest cracked open.
He hadn’t asked me once about the nightmares. He didn’t need to. He was my anchor when I drifted, steady when I spun. And here he was—anchoring me back to my course. But still, the fear coiled. He didn’t know why I had the scar. He was going to actually see it. What if he looked at me differently then, like I was broken? Like I was a monster? Was I a monster?
I swallowed, tearing my gaze away. But when I glanced back at him, he was already watching me; his gaze warm, his smile gentle, and my paranoia subsided.
“Come on,” he grinned. “We’ve got a tattoo to get.”
I dressed quickly, and I followed him to his truck. Our campers didn’t arrive until tomorrow, which meant, for once, it was just us.
The drive into town felt like a dream. Max had the windows rolled down, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us. I moved my hand close enough that our pinkies brushed.
His sunglasses were crooked, his hair wild from the wind, and still he looked maddeningly relaxed. Happy. Free. And the strange part was, I felt the same. I wasn’t looking over my shoulder for once.
“How far is this place?” I asked, propping my feet up on the dashboard, my anklet shining in the sun.
He smirked without even looking at me. “Twenty minutes. Less, if you stop distracting me.”
“Distracting you?” I tilted my head, feigning innocence as I fiddled with his phone. I couldn’t download any apps to mine, so he had set up a playlist on his Spotify for us.
“I’m just sitting here. Being an excellent DJ.”
“11 a.m.” by Incubus broke through the speakers.
“You’re sitting there looking like that,” he muttered, eyes flicking down my legs, before darting back to the road.
I laughed. “Hmm. You like what you see?”
He gave me a look that said he wanted to saysomething filthy back, but he bit his tongue. His fingers were gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white.
“I’m not going to respond to that, Trouble.”
I was a bit disappointed. This wasn’t like Max. He usually told me whatever was on his mind. But now, he was holding back the part of himself I loved the most. I wanted him to be bad. I wanted his restraint to falter a bit.
I didn’t know why he was hiding from me.
“Why? You acted like you liked it last night.”
