Morning will come, and with it, reality, whether I am ready or not.
Ridge shifts, and his hazel eyes open, heavy with sleep, locking on me immediately.
“Morning,” he says, his voice low and rough. The vibration carries through his chest and into my arm.
“Morning,” I whisper.
His arm tightens reflexively, pulling me closer, still half-asleep. I turn within the circle of it, ending up face to face, my head settling against his bicep.
Up close, the ink on his chest draws my attention now, the lines disappearing down his arm in a deliberate swirl. I trace the edge of it lightly with my fingers.
“What’s this one mean?”
He glances at my hand, then back to my face.
“That one’s for my brothers. We got it before Reeves left for his tour in the Middle East.”
Something in my chest loosens at that. This isn’t decoration or bravado. It’s a marker. Something chosen and carried.
“Reeves,” I say. “One of the elusive Stone brothers?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. Barely. “Middle one. Military. Always looking for a fight, preferably with someone bigger than him.”
I smile despite myself and trace the line again, slower now. The ink is warm beneath my thumb, solid in a way that feels deliberate.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Did it hurt?”
“The tattoo?” A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Not as much as it looks.”
I nod, absorbing that. His body is marked everywhere, layers of ink across arms, chest, and back. None of it seems decorative, more like earned.
“No,” I say after a moment, meeting his gaze. “I meant losing your dad.”
The shift in him is subtle but immediate. His mouth firms. He inhales slowly, chest rising beneath my hand.
“It hasn’t been easy,” he says. “There hasn’t been time to sit with it, though. That might be for the best.”
I don’t push. Silence holds without strain.
He shifts onto one elbow. His hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair from my face. The touch is light, restrained, as if he is aware of how much it could mean if he lets it linger.
“What about you?” he asks. “Any ink?”
I shake my head. “My father would lose his mind.”
“You care what he thinks?”
“Enough to avoid the fight.”
“Sounds isolating.”
“It is,” I admit. “I get the sense you understand that.”
He nods once. “More than I want to.”
Something tightens between us. Recognition, not comfort.
My fingers drift over another tattoo, this one darker, more intricate, spreading across the right side of his chest. “And this one?”
