Our hair is still damp from the pool.
His fingers glide cautiously over the inky patterns on my forearm.
“Can I?” he ventures softly.
“Mm-hmm.”
Setting his drink on the table, he takes me by the hand.
The golden haze of the lamp adds depth to the colours on my skin.
“I've been curious to know the story behind each one,” he says, his voice a little shy.
I take a sip, then place my glass next to his.
“Ask me anything,” I offer openly.
Marco turns my wrist, admiring the curves and lines that have been curated over the years.
“Tell me about this one.”
He circles his finger over a delicate sketch of a petalled bloom.
“That’s a frangipani,” I smile. “My mum’s favourite flower.”
His eyes soften.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, kissing the inside of my wrist.
The contact is warm and sensual.
My neck begins to flush as his fingers trail higher along my arm.
A watery image rests just beneath the contour of my tricep.
“How about this one?”
The teardrop.
I look away for a moment, the pain now a distant memory.
“First time I got my heart broken.” I pause, remembering those lonely nights. “I was in a really tough place.”
He lingers for a moment, offering a second kiss to make it better.
I give him one in return, holding him tenderly.
It’s tempting to let fear win, to allow the heartache of love and loss to rob me of this newfound closeness.
The pain I’ve endured is not something I’d ever want to repeat.
And yet,I would risk that again for you.
The thought brews in my mind.
I unbutton my shirt, letting the fabric slip from my shoulders.
There, the ink begins to change.
