Page 20 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
The word share feels strange in my mouth.
His eyes move back to me, dark and steady. After a second, he shrugs like I just told him the weather forecast.
“Sounds fine,” he says evenly. “Unless you’re the type who uses up all the hot water.”
The comment catches me off guard. My brows draw together instinctively.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
“I’m kidding,” he adds, tone dry. “Obviously sharing the shower would solve that problem.”
The image lands before I can stop it.
My eyes widen for half a heartbeat.
“That’s not what I-”
“Don't flatter yourself,” he mutters, watching my reaction with a quiet sort of satisfaction. “You’re way too easy to rile up.”
Heat rises along my neck despite myself. My fingers curl into the sleeves of my sweater, tugging the fabric down over my hands like that might anchor me.
There’s something deliberate in the way he pushes. Testing boundaries. Watching how quickly I flinch.
“How long are you planning to be so…” I begin, the word sticking when he looks at me again.
His gaze sharpens, not aggressive exactly, but intense enough to make the air feel thinner.
“So what?” he asks softly.
“Difficult,” I finish, refusing to back down.
He studies me for a moment longer, then lets himself fall back onto the bed. The frame groans under his weight. The twin mattress looks too small for him when he stretches out, one arm folding behind his head while the other rests loosely over his stomach.
“To you?” he clarifies lazily. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how much you hover.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be.
His shirt shifts as he moves, riding up slightly along his abdomen. My gaze flickers down before I can stop it.
Ink.
Dark lines curve along the edge of his waist, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. The design is incomplete from this angle, just a suggestion of something larger hiddenbeneath fabric. The forest on his arms suddenly feels like only part of the story.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“If you’re going to stare,” he says, not lifting his head, “at least be subtle about it.”
My eyes snap back to his face.
A faint smirk curves his mouth, not playful, not kind. Just aware.
“That one isn’t for casual viewing,” he continues, glancing down briefly at the ink along his waist. “It’s for people who can handle whats beneath it.”
