She shakes her head. “That’s not why.”
I glance at her. “No?”
She meets my eyes. “You didn’t want to forgether.”
I don’t answer, I can’t.
She brings my hand closer, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, right over the ink.
It’s brief, tender, and it hits me harder than the kiss we shared earlier.
My arm tightens around her before I can stop it, pulling her against me. She goes willingly, settling into my chest as her cheek rests there through the fabric of my shirt.
I can feel the pattern of her breath, feel the warmth radiating off of her.
Her hand stays in mine as her fingers curl slightly, like she’s holding on without gripping too tight.
We don’t speak for a long moment.
Settling in closer, she traces a gentle line across mychest with her fingertip, casually following the seams of my shirt.
“So,” she murmurs, “if you could live anywhere… where would you go?”
I glance down at her. “Here’s pretty good.”
She laughs softly. “C’mon. That’s a boring answer.”
“It’s the truth,” I say, brushing a strand of hair away from her lips. “People act like they need a new place to be happy. I think you can build a life worth loving anywhere… if the right person’s there.”
Her hand stills on my chest, like she’s holding her breath.
“That sounds nice,” she whispers. “Having someone who truly chooses you.”
I tighten my arm around her just a little. I desperately want to pry into her relationship, but if she’s out here with me as she’s promised to someone else, I can only assume that something is going on.
“I think you deserve that more than anyone.”
She stares up at me like she’s trying to decide whether to believe it. Her eyes look softer in the low light, open in a way that makes me want to fight every battle she’s too tired to fight alone.
“What about you?” I ask quietly. “Where would you go?”
She sighs, thinking. “Somewhere I can paint withoutworrying how it looks on camera. Somewhere I can just… exist.”
I swallow around the ache in my throat.
“What do you like to paint most?”
“People,” she replies, voice sleepy. “Faces, hands… moments. I like when you can feel the emotion, not just see it.”
“That sounds like you,” I murmur. “You don’t just look at things. You feel them.”
She smiles into my shirt. “Is that your nice way of calling me dramatic?”
“It’s my honest way of saying you care deeply,” I say. “That’s rare.”
Her fingers curl into the fabric over my heart, holding on.
She asks, “Okay, your turn. Ask me anything.”
