Those tattoos.
They stretch over his arms, dark ink against skin, sharp lines and shadows that shift when he moves, when his hands flex against his biceps.
The faint scent of leather and smoke clings to him, subtle but there, and it hits something deep in my chest before I can stop it.
My stomach drops, and I’m back at the trailer.
Leather. Laughter that’s too loud. Beer bottles clinking in the kitchen. Men leaning back in broken chairs like they own the place. Inked skin. Heavy boots. Eyes that linger too long.
I remember standing in the hallway, barely breathing, hoping if I stayed quiet enough, small enough, they wouldn’t notice me.
Didn’t look at me.
Didn’t touch me.
My fingers curl into the fabric of the apron.
Dex moves, just a step closer, and my body reacts before my mind can catch up.
A small shift back.
Barely there.
But enough.
“You keep looking at me like I’m about to hurt you.”
I freeze.
“I’m not,” he adds, quieter now, like it matters that I hear it. “But if you’re that convinced I will… you should leave.”
My chest pulls tight.
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I say before I can stop myself.
His jaw shifts slightly, something flickering across his face before it settles again.
“Then stop acting like I already did something I didn’t.”
I grab an apron, heart thudding. I can feel his eyes on me as I tie it around my waist.
I tell myself not to look back.
And still, something in me strains against it, pulling, curious, wanting to see if he’s still watching.
I don’t give in.
???
Dexter
Fucking shit.
Braids.
Of all the things she could’ve walked in wearing, she chose that.
Neat. Soft. Innocent-looking in a way that feels like a lie, wrapped in denim and calm blue fabric. Like she doesn’t belong behind a bar. Like she’s too untouched for a place like this… or a man like me.
