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He tears open a wipe with his teeth and begins cleaning a cut on my palm.

“Come on!” I swat his arm with my free hand. “You can’t casually mention field dressing battle wounds and not finish the rest of the story!”

His lips twitch as he lifts his gaze to mine. “First of all, I didn’t say battle wounds, you did. And second, there’s really nothing more to tell.”

Jordan finishes cleaning and bandaging my cuts without another word on the subject.

Once he’s satisfied with his handiwork, he climbs out of the car, and I catch a glimpse of a giant black feather on his lower back.

“Is that . . .” I lean over the gearshift for a better look.

Jordan groans as he reaches into the back seat for his dark-gray hoodie.

“I wanna see.” I get out and run around the front of the Jeep to check out his tattoo.

He turns his back to me, letting his arms fall to his sides for my inspection.

“This is amazing.” My fingers glide over the exposed ink, drawing a shudder from him.

His skin is smooth and warm under mine as I trace the intricate feathers. “Is this an eagle?”

“A hawk.”

“A black hawk. How unusual,” I mutter, as I continue exploring the huge black bird perched above his left kidney. Its eyes are closed, its impressive head hanging low, as if it fell asleep on a branch. No. Not sleeping. “It almost looks like it’s . . . praying.”

He nods but doesn’t elaborate.

Dozens of smaller birds—starlings maybe—break off from the whole, creating an uneven halo around the main bird, reinforcing the spiritual imagery.

“Absolutely amazing.” I trace my fingertips along their path, following them all the way up his back to where they abruptly stop along the top of his shoulder blade. Jordan clears his throat, and I reluctantly remove my fingers from his skin, putting an end to my exploration but not the dozens of questions floating around my brain begging to be answered.

“How long did it take to finish all that?”

He turns and faces me, blushing as he pulls on his hoodie. He doesn’t zip it, leaving his chest exposed. “Too long.”

“What do the birds represent?”

“Life . . . and death, and the freedom that brings from expectations.” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Metaphorically speaking.”

My breath stills. The urge to pepper him with questions gnaws at me—about his life before we met, his hopes and dreams, his parents—but his shattered expression breaks my heart, so I keep them all to myself. Instead, I let my gaze wander from his devastatingly beautiful face to the ridges of his chest and the silver bar running through his nipple.

And my thoughts completely short-circuit.

“I like the birds. Who doesn’t love birds, right? You know, I’ve always wanted a tattoo, but ugh, the thought of all those needles—”

Jordan stops my rambling with a desperate kiss that ends far too soon. He rests his forehead against mine and brushes a loose tendril of hair from my cheek. “I was so scared tonight. When Jeremy realized we were at the wrong bowling alley . . . God, Kennedy. You could’ve been killed.”

I blink back tears, trying not to think about that voice . . . or his rough hands on my skin.

Jordan sighs, his breath fanning across my cheeks. “I can’t stand that you keep putting yourself in danger—”

“Not now.” I press a finger to his warm lips. I’m not ready for a scolding. Or a lecture.

He captures my finger, wrapping his large hand around my smaller one. “Promise me we’ll actually talk about it later.”

“I promise.”

“Come on.” He zips his hoodie before leading me through the glass door and into the retro 1950s-style silver diner.