His museum.
I stop next to another drawing, pinned into the wall.
Huh, I recognize this one.
I carefully loosen the drawing. I stroll towards the railings, holding the drawing in my hand.
“You tattoo on yourself?” I breathe out, pointing my free hand at the drawing. He doesn’t need to answer me to let me know I’m right. He moves stiffly. He literally moves like a penguin.
“Tattoo me,” I command.
I am kind of surprised by my own act of braveness and apparently so is he.
“What?” he answers, voice sounding out of breath, blinking his eyes like he got out some trans.
“I want you to tattoo me,” I repeat. I narrow my eyes as he studies my face for any sort of doubts or regret. He growls something to himself, but it is so soft that I can’t make out the words. I sit down on the small couch next to my desk and drag the straps of my dress down and off my shoulders.
“I want it here.” I point my finger at my collarbone.
He just stares at me.
“You have to come up to actually do it you know,” I tease as he still stands under the bottom of the staircase. His foot creaks as he walks up the stairs. He is looking at me, the moment he comes into sight again. I look at him with narrowed eyes, challenging—daring him to do it. His eyes darken as his gaze scans my body. My hair is in a low braid, and I am wearing a light green, flowy dress, with a cute flower print.
Nothing about the way he looks at me right now is cute. I would rather describe it as dangerous.
His fingers rub over his chin as goosebumps appear on his arms. His beautiful, tattooed arms.
“Are you sure about it?” he asks, his voice raw and stuck in his throat.
“One hundred percent,” I squeak out, my voice high and pitched. My heart thunders in my throat and rings in my ears. I can see his chest move as he breathes heavily.
“What kind of tattoo do you want?” he asks, looking at my collarbone. He kneels down next to me, his fingers brushing against my skin, measuring how much space he got I guess.
“You’re the artist here.” A laugh escapes my throat, but it sounds just as nervous as I actually am.
“A sun,” he states.
Well, that is basic. I would have expected something more spectacular from someone who can draw this good.
“Because of my signet.” I sigh, not sure If I want to agree with his plan.
“No,” he claims. My eyes narrow as I try to figure out what he thinks. Looking in his mind feels like cheating, so I wait.
“Because your personality is just like the sun. Bright, positive, shiny and everyone who has you in your life should be grateful. Every room you walk into seems to light up. You make things lighter, easier to carry.” My mouth opens at his words. His words hit hard, like he kicked me in the guts. He looks up from my collarbone for a second, glaring in my eyes. He must see my shock because he speaks up.
“Well, she isn’t always sunny, she once used her wise words and called me a self-centered prick.” He swallows visibly and his Adam’s apple moves. “But maybe that just also proves how fierce and smart that girl is.” He lays his arms beside him, and I can see his muscles move under the blanket with tattoos he put on there. I still stare at him. Not sure if those words just have really left his mouth. I want to give him a smile, but without my knowledge my lips are already curved up.
“A sun it is.”
I admire my image in the mirror standing in our room at the side building. The strap of my dress dangles over my shoulders as I admire the tattoo below my collarbone.
My first tattoo.
Braxton stands behind me and he looks worried as I explore the red skin with my fingers.
“So?” he asks quietly, a frown appearing between his eyebrows. I turn around and wrap my arms around his waist.
“I love it!” I cheer, jumping up and down, holding Braxton. It is only when he stiffens that I realize that what I am doing is completely inappropriate. I release my arms and stumble backwards. I can feel my cheeks turn red. “Sorry,” I mumble.
