Her eyes go wide as she takes in the full canvas—the pieces covering my chest, ribs, shoulders, arms. Black and gray work, mostly. A few pieces of color. Each one means something, tells a story.
"Holy shit," she breathes. "Grayson, these are—you're?—"
"Like what you see?"
"Are you kidding?" She sets down her coffee and moves closer, her hand reaching out then hesitating. "Can I touch?"
"Yeah."
Her fingers trace the design on my chest—geometric patterns flowing into organic shapes. She follows the line down to my ribs, where a detailed piece wraps around my side. Her touch is feather-light, reverent, and it's taking everything in me not to grab her and kiss her senseless.
"This one?" She traces the roses and thorns on my ribs.
"Got it when I opened my shop. Represents new beginnings. Growth through pain."
"And this?" Her finger follows the piece on my shoulder—a geometric wolf.
"The lone wolf I used to be." Before I found pack. Before I found her.
She traces each piece, asking about them, and I tell her the stories. Her scent gets sweeter with each touch, honey overwhelming everything else, and I can tell she's getting turned on just looking at me.
"You're staring," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
"You're hot." She's not even embarrassed about it. "Like, really hot. Have you seen yourself?"
"Bea—"
"And you're going to put me here?" She touches the empty space on my ribs, right over my heart. "Permanently?"
"Yes."
Her eyes get suspiciously shiny. "That's—god, Grayson?—"
"Too much?"
"No." She shakes her head. "Not too much. Perfect. You're perfect."
Then she's kissing me—soft, sweet, full of promise.
When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed and her scent is pure honey. "I should get ready for work."
"Yeah." I'm still holding her, not quite ready to let go.
"But Grayson?" She touches my chest one more time, right over my heart. "Thank you. For this. For being patient."
"Always."
She slips away, and I stand there in my kitchen, shirtless, wondering how I got so lucky.
That night,I can't sleep.
Instead of lying in the nest restless, I come downstairs to my makeshift studio in the corner of the living room. Sketching helps when my mind won't quiet.
The fireplace is down to embers, casting a warm glow across the room. I should add more wood, but the heat is still radiating, keeping the space comfortable.
I'm working on her portrait—refining the shading around her eyes, the curve of her smile—when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
"Grayson?"
