"Which one? We had a few."
"The one where your hand was broken."
"Oh, when you worked three jobs to feed me because I couldn't fight?"
"You do eat a lot..."
We laughed. He brushed my hair from my face like it was second nature. He always did this. I don't know why. Maybe he didn't like hair covering my face. Maybe he just needed to see me.
"We used to lie there and play rich people," I said. "'Oh, how many millions do you have, sir?'"
"'Only a gazillion. And you, my dear?'"
We both grinned, remembering those nights when millions felt like fairy tales.
"Would you believe we'd actually make it?" I asked.
"I knew I would," he said, smiling.
"Oh, fuck you. You knew you'd make it? Just you?"
He paused, fingers tangling in my hair, eyes rolling like he was indulging a stubborn kid. "I had to."
"Why? I had to too, you know."
"Because watching you sneak me your half of a sandwich and stay hungry? That broke me."
I smirked. "You still ate it."
He scoffed. "I didn't know it was your share of the food at that moment! Marcus snitched later."
"That traitor."
Drogo chuckled, leaning back like the world was just a joke between us. "Paintball with him tomorrow."
"Do you ever, you know... work?"
He frowned, pulling out his phone like a magician revealing a trick. "Even now. Watch this."
He tapped an app. "Last hour: £783.91."
"Okay, Mr. Big-Shot Architect, time to see my numbers."
Before I could swipe, he caught my hands. "Nope, let me enjoy my one win."
He laughed, pulling me into his chest—the one place where the world could fall apart and I'd still be safe. His heartbeat was my favorite kind of calm.
I traced his tattoos again—the sleeve on his left arm, the scattered pieces on his ribs. Each one had a story. Each one had a scar underneath.
"You're going to get more, aren't you?" I asked.
"Probably." He took another drag, exhaling slowly. "Running out of space, though."
"Good. You're already a walking art gallery."
"Says the woman with zero tattoos."
"I don't need them. I have you."
