Her thumb skims higher, over my chest, to the black and gray wings inked over my shoulder.
“Tell me about the angel,” she says softly.
I exhale, every muscle in my body drawn tight… except where she touches me. There, everything melts.
“It was a story my mom used to tell. Back when we were living in a place that smelled like mold, and I couldn’t go to school without the poor showing. Back when I thought surviving meant keeping my head down and staying useful.”
Sable adjusts herself, circling her hand around my wrist and pulling me to sit on the bed with her. She curls back up on her side and I face her. I stay sitting up, legs half off the edge, notready to settle. The hand she used to pull me in cradles the knuckles that carry the busted skin from earlier.
“She told me of an angel,” I say. “Not the kind you pray to. Not soft or glowing or merciful, like they preach of.”
Her gaze doesn’t leave my face as I speak. Not once.
“This angel… she doesn’t save the worthy. She saves theruined. The ones who stop trying. The ones who stop believing they deserve anything good. Not because they are bad, but because they’ve spent too long in the wrong situations.”
She lifts my hand to her mouth and kisses the broken flesh. Every knuckle. Slow. Like it matters. LikeImatter.
I pause, jaw tight.
My voice drops with the weight of emotion. “Mom said the angel watches, waits for the one person too tired to ask for help. Too proud to beg. Too damaged.”
Sable intertwines her fingers with mine.
“But this particular angel doesn’t show up to save you. She is meant to stand beside you. And if you truly want out of hell, she’ll walk the path with you.”
She’s still holding my hand.
But the other one—the one she held to my chest moments ago—moves again. It coasts over the line of the tattoo, tracing the blade in the angel’s hand, the feathers of her wing, the shadow etched into her face.
“She’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“She’s you,” I say.
Her lips part, but no air escapes. Glassy brown eyes dart to mine, searching for an answer.
I don’t say it to charm her. It’s true. I’ve spent most of my life waiting for the world to take something else from me, and this woman somehow showed up instead.
And I think she knows it. Because instead of speaking, she sits up, leans in and presses her mouth to the center of my chest. Right over my heart.
She stays there for a long moment, before pulling back.
I try to force a smile, “You always this drawn to tattoos?”
She lets out a soft chuckle, one shoulder shrugging as she lays back down in the sheets. “Not usually. Just yours. I mean, I admire creativity, of course. But I’ve never gotten one.”
That catches me off guard. “You? Artistic as hell and never thought to design your own piece?”
Her smile falters just a touch, turning inward. “Trust me, I’ve tagged along to plenty of Demi’s appointments. I just could never decide what to get. What would mean enough. What would last. Kinda strange, right? I mean… a tattoo lasts forever. But the depth of the meaning has to also.”
I nod, something tightening in my chest. “Nah, it makes sense.”
She lifts a hand, brushing her fingers against the edge of the sheet, thoughtful. “I’ve never really had something that felt permanent. Nothing with roots. No person, no place I could feel sure of.” Her voice softens. “Certainly nothing I felt brave enough to mark on myself.” A beat, then she adds, quieter still, “Maybe one day I’ll do something for my son. That’s the only person I’ve ever felt might stay.”
The room stills.
I slide closer, resting my hand on her thigh over the covers. “You think you can bring me peace and not expect me to crave you like madness?”
A weighty blink and then the cutest fucking smile washes over her face. She tilts her head, shuts her eyes, and lays back on the pillow.
