The morning hung heavy between us, the air thick with the scent of oil and the old panic I tried to keep out of sight.
“Hey,” he said, voice too bright for the hour.
I grunted, wiped my hands on a rag, and nodded at the far bench. “Wood’s on the table. Get the glue.”
He went over, eyes tracking every move I made. I could see his hands trembling as he peeled off the hoodie, setting it on the stool. The bandage was visible now, a stripe of sterile white circling his left wrist, blotched at the edge with faint, angry pink. I felt the way my jaw clenched, a current running down the back of my neck.
“You wanna tell me what happened?” I said, barely above a growl.
He tensed, jaw working. “It’s nothing.”
I crossed the floor in three steps. He backed up until his calves hit the bench. I let my shadow fall over him, every inch of me braced. “Don’t lie.”
He swallowed. His gaze flicked to the bandage, then up at me. “It’s not—I wanted it. I asked for it.”
It should’ve been a relief, but it landed in my chest like a nail. “Who.”
He stared at the wall. “Ransom,” he mumbled, and then, stronger: “Ransom did it. But I made him.”
I forced myself to loosen my fists. Ransom was a bastard, but he never did anything without being dared, and Levi had never lied to me, not about this kind of thing.
“What was it?” I asked.
Levi looked down. His hair fell into his face, hiding the red that bloomed across his cheeks. “I’ll show you. Just… don’t freak out, okay?”
I grunted. “Can’t make that promise.”
He snorted, a quick burst of nerves, then picked at the edge of the wrap with his thumb. The gauze stuck a little, then came off slow, peeling back to reveal a patch of plastic-wrapped skin. Underneath, the flesh was swollen and shiny with ointment, but the letters were clear as day, black and beautiful and sharp: myname, inked along the inside of his wrist in a script I recognized as his own design.
It hit me like a punch. I stared, not trusting my voice. Levi watched my face, biting his lip so hard it went white.
“I wanted—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I wanted it to be real. I know you gave me the bracelet, and I love it, but I wanted something that couldn’t come off. I wanted…” His voice trailed off, words dissolving into the heat of the room.
It took everything I had to keep my hands at my sides. I wanted to grab him, to bite the ink and taste the salt in his skin, to mark him all over again so nobody could ever mistake who he belonged to.
Instead, I said, “You’re a damn idiot, you know that?”
He nodded, a weird little laugh catching in his throat. “Yeah. I know.”
I reached out and traced the edge of the tattoo with my thumb. The skin was raw, feverish, but he didn’t flinch. He let me touch him, let me see what he’d done, and in that moment I wanted to burn the whole world to the ground just to keep him safe.
I looked at him, really looked, and saw the way his eyes went soft when he thought I wasn’t mad anymore. The color in his cheeks, the tremor in his hands.
“You hungry?” I asked, because I didn’t trust myself to say anything that mattered yet.
He shrugged. “Little bit.”
I grabbed the thermos from the desk, poured two cups of coffee, and handed him one. He took it, sipped, then set it down and licked his lips.
“Are you mad?” he asked, voice gone small.
I stared at the ink, the way it curved around the bone of his wrist. I shook my head. “No,” I said, and I meant it. “Not at you.”
He looked up, waiting for the rest.
I tried to explain, but the words got tangled. What I wanted to say: I love you so hard it scares me. What came out instead: “You ever do this again, you tell me first. Got it?”
He nodded, and this time his smile didn’t try to hide.
