“I got drunk one night in high school, and my teammate’s brother did tattoos at home,” he shrugs. “What can I say?”
“Wasn’t it painful? I mean, you played hockey back then, and I can’t imagine exercising with a fresh tattoo.”
His face twists in a grimace. “Oh, it sucked. But our coach didn’t care, though. There were four of us who got the same tattoo that night. One of my teammates’ tattoo even got infected and he still played every game.”
“Gross.”
“Totally,” he agrees as he passes me a glass of non-alcoholic sparkling wine.
I thank him. “Do you have a favorite?”
He rolls up his right sleeve some more to show me the detailed snake that takes up almost the entire length of his arm. “This one.”
The details are as breathtaking as the first time I saw it. The scales and the fierce gaze of the serpent make it seem alive on his skin.
“Is there a special meaning behind it?”
He nods as he cuts into his salmon. “Snake tattoos can symbolize rebirth and change. I got mine before my first professional season. It’s my reminder of all the different phases in my life. The good, the bad, the ugly. Everything that has shaped me.”
“I used to be afraid of snakes,” I admit.
“Did my tattoo change your mind?”
“Maybe.” I wink, taking a bite of the food. The flavors hit me all at once, and I mumble through a hand covering my mouth, “Holy shit, this is incredible.”
His lips twitch. “Just wait until you try the Swedish apple tart I baked for dessert earlier today.”
“That sounds divine,” I take a sip of the drink. “Speaking of tattoos, have you planned on getting any new designs?”
“Of course.” He leans back. “I’ll have a tattoo or two for our little Meatball.”
I look at him skeptically. “Pleasetell me you won’t get a tattoo of anactualmeatball.”
“Now that you’ve planted the idea…” He glances up from his plate, catching my horrified expression, and laughs. “Relax. I’m only kidding.”
I don’t reply, taking another bite of the food. Rasmus watches me, his expression less playful than before.
His thumb brushes along the rim of his glass. “You know, sometimes I wonder what’s really going on in that head of yours.”
I raise an eyebrow, swallowing. “What do you mean?”
“You sit here smiling and laughing, pretending everything’s fine…but I can still feel it. There’s this wall you’ve built between us, and no matter what I do, you won’t let me past it.”
I drop my gaze to my plate, nudging a piece of salmon around. “It’s not you.”
“Then what is it?” His voice tightens, edged with something between concern and helplessness. “Because I can’t shake the feeling. What do I have to do for you to let me in?”
I stare at my food, appetite gone, and feel the weight of everything I’ve kept locked inside. It’s not that I don’t want to let him in. It’s that letting him in means exposing the most fragile, fearful parts of myself. The ones I’ve spent years pretending didn’t exist.
I draw a breath, barely audible. “I’m scared.”
He goes still before speaking. “Of what?”
My lips part, but nothing comes out right away. I glance up, just for a second, and the look on his face nearly unravels me. He’s not angry. He’s just patient. Like he knows the truth is delicate and he doesn’t want to break it by pushing too hard.
“Of losing this,” I say at last, my voice low. “Of messing it up. Of people turning something good into something ugly.”
“Haisley…” He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving mine. “We’re not responsible for other people’s opinions. We can’t live our lives under the weight of their assumptions.”
