“Cal.What.”
He slowly turned it toward me. Across the top of his wrist, right above where a watch would rest, were three words in a black typewriter font:
in this life
My breath caught. A memory flickered in my brain. Me leaning over him, showing him my right hand.
No fucking way.
I turned my own wrist over.
& the next
It was real. It was on both of us.
My eyes burned, but not from the hangover. This man wouldbleedfor me and brand himself and vow to find me in every lifetime and never let go.
“Callum…” I whispered.
He just shook his head like he couldn’t believe it either.
“I almost wrote down that exact thing in my vows,” he admitted hoarsely.
I didn’t speak. I just threw myself into his arms and held him, ink and all. His body was hot and solid beneath me, every muscle relaxed now in that delicious quiet. His hand drifted slowly up and down my spine, no destination, just comfort. My fingers found his hair and tugged gently. He hummed against my neck, his breath warm and uneven, like he was still catching up to the moment.
“I think I blacked out during the ceremony,” I murmured.
“You were beautiful,” he said. “You looked like lavender honey and heartbreak. I was a goner.”
A smile tugged at my mouth. My legs tangled with his under the covers. I let his hand wander a little lower. My head spun in a soft way, heavy and warm, and somewhere between his thumb brushing beneath my breast and the ache in my hips pulsing again?—
I gasped again.
“There was a butterfly.Threebutterflies—I remember—on a sketch? Or a napkin? Something?—”
“Oh God.” He paused, blanching. “Did we?”
“Je ne sais pas!” I crawled halfway over him and yanked back the sheet. “You had a sketch in your wallet, I think? I remember seeing it… on the counter? At the parlor?”
“Fuck.” He reached blindly for his pants at the foot of the bed, his movements jerky and disoriented. “Check my arm. My thigh—no, wait.Shit.Where the fuck is it?”
I stilled when my arm started to burn. I bolted to my feet, regretting it instantly, then hobbled toward the mirror like Bambi on ice.
I turned my arm. Sure enough, there were three butterflies—two black, one red. Small and delicate and burned into the inside of my left bicep, right by my heart when my arm was at my side.
Cal appeared behind me. Our eyes met in the mirror. He pressed his lips together, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak. Then his gaze landed on the ink. His throat worked once, then again.
“One for every loss,” I said softly. “The red one is ours. And maybe a symbol of what we’ll find again.”
He reached for my arm, held it gingerly, then kissed the edge of the plastic like it could bring back what we’d lost.
“I remember now,” he told me quietly. “You showed me the sketch and said you wanted to carry them with you. And I said…”
“You said I’d never have to carry them alone anymore,” I whispered.
Callum nodded. Then slowly turned, lifting his left arm just slightly. One single black butterfly etched over his ribs.
We didn’t speak for a long time.
