“What’s that?” I ask stupidly, hoping the coffee is for me. I can stomach coffee.
“I made a pot. Fia and I have been downstairs watching Christmas movies for, like, two hours.” He sets the mug down beside me. “You slept in.”
“Oh.” My voice comes out thin. I wasn’t prepared forthisversion of the morning. “Thanks,” I mutter.
“You talk in your sleep, you know that?” Jesse muses.
I groan in response.“I was so loud that you could hear me from your room?” I ask, bringing the coffee to my lips, needing something to do with my hands. I glance up at Jesse, who runs a hand through his messy dark hair. Bed head always looks good on guys. I look like I just rolled out of the back of a trash collection truck.
“You don’t remember last night, do you?” he asks, almost seeming shy. Not something I’ve ever seen him be. “I slept right next to you.”
I burn my tongue on the first sip of coffee.
That indent in my bed is real—and really not mine.
Three awkward silent beats pass by before I muster the courage to look up at him.
“Nothing…” I start, my voice cracking. “Did something happen…between us?”
He shakes his head, and I sigh in relief.“You just didn’t want to be alone.”
That’s somehow worse.
“Right,” I bite out.
The black mug burns my fingers as we remain in this loud silence, but Jesse mercifully breaks it.
“I’ll let you get yourself together.”
I nod, unable to hide my shame.
“I’ll be downstairs, join us when you’re ready?” he asks, and I nod, needing to be alone.
But my eyes catch the ink sprawled across his back as he turns to leave, and everything in me pulls tight.
“What’s on your back?” I stutter, my heart pounding unsteadily against my ribs as he freezes mid-step. He drags a hand down the doorframe, shoulders tense, then reluctantly glances back at me.
I don’t meet his eyes. I can’t.
I’m too busy tracing the lines etched into his skin.
It’s unmistakable.
“Move closer,” I command, and he does.
Lucky Pennyis scribed in black ink, settled deep into his skin, right beneath the bench. Our bench. A magnolia tree shelters both.
This whole time, it’s been there, intertwined with all his other tattoos…our story, myname, on his skin for the whole world to see.
Jesse turns the rest of the way around, and I see the magnolia branch stretch over his shoulder, vining across his chest until it stops—right over his heart.
Though I’m barely moving, it feels like this bedroom isspinning around me.
“Why do you have that tattoo?” I ask, not sure I truly want to know the answer.
He’s covered in ink—a whole life catalogued across his skin. But I don’t have to clarify which one I mean.
His gaze finds me again, and it locks. Everything I’ve buried starts clawing its way up. Every unspoken thing. But it gets trapped right at the tip of my tongue.
