She crawls onto the left side, sinking into the mattress with a sigh that feels like both relief and heartbreak braided together. I join her, lying on the right side.
Her kiss is still everywhere. I’d pulled back when every instinct in me screamed to do the opposite. Even now, my jaw aches from how hard I’m holding myself together.
She turns her head toward me, her eyes finding mine easily in the low light.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey,” I answer, voice rougher than I want it to be.
She gradually moves closer, her knee touching mine, and I remain still.
The only skin she can see is the left side of my face; thecurve of my cheekbone catching the lamplight, ink tracing from the base of my neck and disappearing beneath my collar.
Roses for my beloved mama, her favorite. Black-and-white ink swirls beneath my neck’s base, encased in a mandala, to honor her.
Her gaze catches on the ink across my neck. I feel the weight of her gaze, even before she touches me.
She cranes her neck slightly, adjusting her angle to see better, studying the tattoo with quiet focus.
“That’s… really intricate,” she murmurs. “I didn’t notice how detailed it was before.”
I swallow. “You weren’t this close before.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across her mouth. “Fair point.”
She lifts her hand, hesitates for just a beat, then lets her fingers brush across my jaw; not across the scars, but the feel of her touch causes my eyes to flutter shut.
Her touch trails downward, following the ink on my neck with careful reverence. She stops at the collar of my shirt, fingertips resting there, acknowledging the boundary without challenging it.
I exhale slowly, the tension easing just enough to breathe.
She shifts again, closer now, and reaches for my hand where it’s curled between us.
Her fingers wrap around mine, and the fucking sensation of butterflies flutters back.
She turns my hand palm-up, studying the lines and ridges. Her thumb drags gently over my knuckles, and then she freezes.
Her eyes drop, narrowing slightly as she takes in the Roman numerals inked there.
XII / XII.
She doesn’t say anything at first, as she just holds my hand, analyzing.
“That’s a date,” she says finally, voice quiet.
“Yeah.”
She lifts her gaze to me. “What happened?”
I shake my head once. “Nothing happened.” A pause. “It’s my mom’s birthday, December twelfth.”
Her expression changes, not in a dramatic way, just a slow softening, like understanding settling into place.
“Oh,” she says.
She looks back down at my hand, her thumb tracing the numbers again, gentler now. “You put it somewhere you’d see it all the time.”
“So I wouldn’t forget,” I say.
