Everything with Kade left me off-kilter. It should be natural that I seek out some form of comfort. Except… why is it her?
Why am I standing in the doorway of her room, watching her fold laundry, instead of immediately retreating to the safe haven of my room?
When did she have time to do laundry, is the better question?
“Why are you staring at me?” Tem’s voice is stiff.
I cringe. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” She drops the shirt onto her bed and plants her hands on her hips. “I have a sixth sense about that kind of thing.”
“Staring?”
“You.” She meets my gaze.
Oh.
“I didn’t realize how tattooing Kade would hurt you,” I say.
I either say it now or I hold on to it forever.
She winces. Continues folding. Busy work to steady the slightest tremor in her fingers.
“So for that, I’m sorry. If I knew… I should’ve known, that’s not an excuse. I just…”
“You just can’t help yourself,” Tem says quietly. She laughs. “Of course you can’t. You torture me, Saint. All the fucking time, you justkillme. And now you’re going to come in here and tell me that was the one time you forgot Kade was a sore spot?”
I rear back. “No.”
“Yes,” she argues. She’s given up on folding and comes closer, her expression more mad than I’ve seen her. “Yes, Saint. You know exactly how to drive the knife in deeper.”
Apt analogy. My focus drops to her stomach. She’s wearing a cropped top, and the stitches of the lower stab wound are visible. They’re healing surprisingly well, which means she’s taking care of them the way she should. She’s not scratching at them, or jumping into the ocean, or…
“Even the tattoo,” she mutters. “Not his—mine.”
“Your—”
“My lack of a tattoo!” She throws her hands up.
Strands of hair are escaping the bun on top of her head. Her black leggings match the cropped shirt, and both make her tanned skin seem even more golden. There’s not a speck of makeup on her face. Just a few necklaces, a ring on her index finger…
Her lack of a tattoo.
She’s talking about when I tattooed her with no ink?
“I thought you didn’t care about that.” I eye her. “You didn’t want me to?—”
“No?” She huffs. “You’re so thick.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” she goads.
She comes closer, pressing her palm to my chest. “You’re so stupid, Saint. You don’t see what’s right in front of you.”
“What’s that?”
Her expression closes.
