Satisfaction echoes through his features when he realizes I won’t leave. Letting go of me, he unzips the bag.
Then looks at me like I know what thegibberishis going on.
“Use me,” he extends his arm as it rests over my knee.
There’s that word again.
Brows furrowing, “Use you as what exactly?”
“Your colouring book.”
I let out a laugh, he’s not actually serio?—
Oh,no, no, no.
Dearest most needed organ of mine, please be patient with me. I promise as soon as I’m in the safety of my room I’ll search up how to cure an expired, molded heart that’s currently resurrecting itself like an almost-dead plant.
Is this what revival feels like because I’m not sure I like it.
“You can’t be serious, Dean.”
He’s absolutely serious.
Kill me now.
“I’ll ruin your tattoos.”
“They’re washable markers.”
“I don’t colour within the lines.”
“Neither do I.”
“You’re ticklish.”
Amusement flashes in those greens. “I’m not.”
Out of options, I ask, “Why?” but I’m already reaching for a dark pink marker.
“You said you were feeling anxious, and you completed the pages in your colouring book,” he says, like it’s the only possible answer he can give me. Dean brands his palm over my thigh, the warmth travelling from him to me to all over my body.
Mushy.
Gooey.
Annoyed, that he’s been watching me carefully enough to know exactly what I need.
“Fine,” I uncap the marker and point the cap end of it at him. “But you can’t hate me after.”
Gruffly, he responds, “Never.”
Ignoring the fluttering sensation occurring in the pit of my stomach, I do what I’ve always wanted to do.
I start colouring Dean Vuk’s colourless tattoos.
Usually when I colour, I think about what colours belong where and which ones pair well together. But right now—marking his skin with pink—I’m not thinking.
His muscles flex and unflex while the thick tip presses against one of the leaves.
