“I don’t want any artist, I wantyou.”
The simplicity of his statement does something to my chest. He’s not asking because I’m convenient or available. He’s asking because it matters. Because having my art on his body means something.
“I’d have to think about placement,” I say slowly. “Something visible enough you’d see it, but not so obvious it becomes a media circus.”
His eyes light up. “So, you’re considering it.”
“I’m entertaining the possibility. There is a difference.”
“I’ll take it.” He pulls my feet back into his lap, resuming the massage. “Where would you put it?”
“Ribs, maybe. Inside your forearm. Somewhere personal.” I watch his face. “What do you want it to mean?”
“That’s your call. You’re the artist.”
“But it’s your body. Your story.”
He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “Control,” he says finally. “And letting go of it. Baseball’s all about control. Every pitch, every movement, calculated and precise. But off the field?” He shakes his head. “I’ve spent years controlling my image, my reputation, who I’m seen with, it’s exhausting.”
“And you want a tattoo about releasing control?”
“I want a tattoo about choosing when to release it. Knowing the difference between control and surrender.” His eyes meet mine. “You make me want to surrender. To stop performing and calculating every move.”
My breath catches. This is the most honest he’s been, and the vulnerability in his voice cracks something open inside me.
“Reece…”
“I know it’s a lot, but you asked.” He reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together. “Design whatever you think fits. I trust you.”
The weight of those words settles over me.Trust. He’s handing me control over something permanent, something he’ll carry forever. The responsibility should terrify me.
Instead, it feels right.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “No promises, but I’ll sketch some ideas.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“And if I decide I can’t do it?”
“Then I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll understand.” He tugs me closer until I’m practically in his lap. “But I think you will because you want to. I can see it.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“About you? Always.”
He kisses me then, slow and deep, and I lose myself in it. In him.
The control he’s always talking about? I’m surrendering all of it right now, and I can’t bring myself to care.
It is one-thirty in the morning when I finally give in and text Reece.
I’ve been pacing my apartment, phone in hand, deleting and rewriting the same message over and over. This is reckless, impulsive, and everything I’ve spent weeks trying to avoid.
But I’m tired of being careful. Tired of overthinking. Tired of pretending three weeks with Reece feels casual when it feels anything but.
Me:Come over.
The response is immediate.
