Before I can think better of it, my fingers brush over the ink. I trace small circles over it, the way I used to when I held her hand. Jules’ breath hitches, and when I glance up, our eyes lock.
We stay like that. Suspended in the moment.
Her skin under my touch, my thumb making those same light circles I used to.
And for the first time in two years, it feels like nothing has changed.
And that’s the problem.
“I’m glad you did something for yourself,” I say, breaking the silence.
Jules’ eyes soften, her guard slipping just a little. “I did do it for me.” She tilts her head slightly, looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time all over again.
“Good,” I murmur.
She blinks slowly, hesitating before asking, “Do you have any tattoos? I mean, uh, have you gotten one since we…”
Her words trail off, but I know what she means. Since the divorce. Since we unraveled.
I lick my lips, my gaze flicking to her mouth. God, I want to kiss her right now. “You still can’t remember?”
Jules swallows hard, her throat working, the pulse at her neck betraying her tension. She knows I’m talking about last week. About the night we spent tangled together, skin to skin, her body pressed against mine.
And yet, she can’t remember what I look like naked.
“Uh… not exactly,” she finally admits.
“That’s too bad,” I say quietly, my thumb stilling against her smooth skin. A beat passes before I add, “I still don’t have any.”
“If you were going to get one,” she asks, her voice softer now, like she’s afraid of disrupting whatever fragile moment we’re standing in, “what would it be?”
I think about it for a second. I’ve never been the kind of guy who needed something permanent inked on my body. But if I had to choose…
“I’d probably get Tate’s name somewhere,” I confess. “Maybe on my arm.”
Jules’ face breaks into a smile, wide and genuine. It knocks the air right out of my lungs.
“Not the answer I was expecting,” she says.
“What were you expecting?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“I thought you’d say you’d never get a tattoo,” she murmurs.
I let my hand fall away from her wrist, my fingers cooling from where they had been resting against her skin. And for just a second—just one—I see something flicker across her face.
Regret.
Did she… miss my touch?
No. I’m imagining things.
Before I can say anything, Tate’s voice rings through the kitchen, bright and full of unshaken joy. “I love it when we’re all together!”
Jules jolts, and just like that, the wall goes back up.
Mortar. Barbed wire. Cement.
She’s locking me out again, and I’m starting to wonder why the hell I don’t just smash through it.
