"You have tattoos," she said, and the words came out almost accusatory.
"Yeah."
"You didn't have tattoos. Before."
"No."
She was staring now, her earlier embarrassment apparently forgotten as she took in the sleeve on my left arm, the phoenix across my chest. Her eyes traced the lines, the shadows, the intricate patterns that told a story only I could read.
"When did you..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind. None of my business."
"After I left." The words came out before I could stop them. "Started getting them after I left."
Her eyes met mine, and something shifted in her expression. Something that looked almost like understanding, though I couldn't imagine what she thought she understood.
"What do they mean?"
"Different things." I watched water drip from my hair onto my shoulders, watched her eyes track the droplets as they slid down my chest. "Some of them are missions. Some are people I lost. Some are just reminders."
"Reminders of what?"
Of you,I thought.Of what I gave up. Of why I can't afford to let myself feel too much.
But I didn't say that. Instead, I just shrugged. "Things I don't want to forget."
She was quiet for a long moment, her eyes still tracing the ink on my skin. Then she seemed to catch herself, and the walls slammed back up so fast I could almost hear them.
"I'll just." She gestured vaguely toward the living room. "I'll wait. Take your time."
She fled.
There was no other word for it. She turned and practically ran out of the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind her with a bang.
I stood there for a long moment, water still dripping down my skin, my body aching with a want so fierce it bordered on painful.
She'd looked at me like she wanted to eat me alive.
And God help me, I wanted to let her.
I got dressed quickly and ran a hand through my wet hair. No point in delaying the inevitable awkwardness.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Betty was in the kitchen, standing in front of the coffee maker with her back to me. Her shoulders were tense, her posture rigid, and she didn't turn around when she heard me approach.
"Coffee will be ready in a minute," she said, her voice carefully neutral.
"I'll make breakfast."
"You don't have to."
"You need to eat." I moved past her to the refrigerator, close enough that I could smell her. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to reach out and touch her. "When's the last time you had a real meal?"
She didn't answer, which told me everything I needed to know.
I opened the fridge and assessed the contents. Eggs. Bacon. Some cheese that was probably still good. Butter. Not much, but enough.
"You still take your coffee black with two sugars?" I asked as I pulled out the eggs.
She turned to look at me, her eyebrows raised. "How do you know that?"
