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She bumps her shoulder against mine. “You're insufferable.”
“And yet,” I say, catching her wandering hand before it leaves my arm, “you keep touching me.”
Her eyes flick to where our hands are intertwined. Instead of pulling away, she slips her fingers from between mine and, with her free hand, traces another forest-inspired design along my ribs. “I appreciate good art.”
“You're calling me art now?”
“I didn't say that,” she says, sticking out her tongue. I immediately want to suck it. Or lick it. Honestly, both.
“You want the grand tour or not?” I ask playfully and she nods once. “You can have one, but only if you ask nicely.”
She withdraws her hand, folds both beneath her chin, and widens her eyes. “Oh, Daddy,” she says sweetly, “please show me your beautiful ink.”
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. Who fucking knew I’d enjoy being called Daddy, even as a joke? Not that I’m about to make it a thing.
“You are absolutely impossible,” I mutter.
“But is it working?”
“Unfortunately…yes.”
Peyton giggles and I pinch her side. She squeals, curling in on herself before retaliating by poking my ribs over the tattoo she just admired. I catch her wrist before she can launch another attack, laughing as she tries to wriggle free. God help me. I could get used to this.
Slipping from my hold, she sits up to reach for her glasses on the nightstand. She slides them on and looks back at me with an expression so bright and intent that I know what it feels like to be something worth studying. I don’t mind her attention one bit.
“Roll on your stomach,” she says, making the gesture with her hand.
“Bossy. I like it.”
She pokes my ribs again. “Move, Braxton.”
Turning onto my stomach, I fold my arms beneath the pillow and let myself relax. The mattress shifts as Peyton straddles my lower back. Her palm settles between my shoulders, the touch calming. She barely applies any pressure, yet the warmth of her hand anchors me to the bed.
“Oh, it's breathtaking,” she breathes in awe. “I've seen it a few times from a distance, but that doesn't do the design justice. I love how it ties all your other tattoos together. Absolutely stunning.”
Just like you, nearly slips out. I manage to bite the comment back before it can escape. Something tells me saying that aloud would earn me endless teasing, and I’m not ready to hand her that kind of ammunition in our morning after bubble.
The tattoo stretches across my entire back, black and gray ink sweeping from shoulder to shoulder. Lower is an anatomical heart, but instead of arteries and veins, it’s surrounded by mechanical gears and engine parts. Ferns and wildflowers push through the gaps, winding around the metal before becoming roots of towering trees, the branches spreading across my upper back.
Peyton’s fingertips follow the design, careful not to linger in one place for too long. “This feels different from the others.”
“It is,” I confirm with a short answer. For a moment, all I hear is the hum of the ceiling fan as I try to come up with an explanation.
“I was broken for years after leaving our hometown. Well, I still feel that way sometimes, just less than I did back in Omaha.” I stare into the pillow as the words come easier than I expect. “It was like some essential part of me had cracked open, and everyone kept telling me to breathe through the pain of not being able to take care of my siblings. I know they meant well, but I kept thinking that if I were a machine, someone could open me up and point to the problem. They would say, there. That piece. That’s why he can’t function.”
Peyton doesn't answer right away. Her fingertips trace over the tattoo again, following the roots into the heart before retracing the cracks through the machinery, as though committing every line to memory.
When she finally speaks, her voice is so quiet I almost don't hear it. “So you put the inside on the outside.”
My eyes burn, which feels rude and unnecessary before breakfast. “Something like that.”
“I'm glad you did.”
I turn my head to look at her over my shoulder. “Why?”
Her shining eyes meet mine. “Because it means some part of you wanted to be seen, even if you only knew how to do it through ink. And I'm really glad that part won. You deserve to be seen, Ollie Braxton.”
I don’t trust myself to answer, so I reach back until I find her hand. We stay like that, my face half-buried in the pillow, her thumb moving slowly over my knuckles.
