She blinks. “What?”
“You’ve been holding it the whole walk here.”
She presses her palm to her chest, as if checking. “I… didn’t realize.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I know.”
She looks so exhausted my chest aches. Her legs curl underneath her slightly, hoodie swallowing her frame. She isn’t made for stillness—Valentina thrives in motion, in fire, in chaos she chooses—not this frozen state she’s stuck in.
“Tell me something,” I say quietly.
She lifts her eyes. “What?”
“Did you ever want a tattoo?”
The question startles her enough to break the fog. She blinks rapidly. “Actually… yes. Always.”
I lean closer. “Let me choose your first one.”
Her brows knit. “Absolutely not. You’d pick something insane.”
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. “Exactly.”
She stares at me for a long, suspended moment. I watch her swallow. Watch the way her anxiety shifts into something warmer, something more alive. This is what I wanted—her spark, even if brief.
“…Fine,” she says finally. “Choose it.”
The air thickens. My pulse kicks.
“You trust me that much?” I murmur.
“I trust you enough,” she says. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“Oh, you will,” Frankie calls cheerfully from behind us.
I ignore her, leaning in until my lips almost brush the shell of Valentina’s ear. Not touching—but close enough that I feel her shiver. My hand rests lightly on the back of her chair, caging her in.
“Lower right back,” I whisper. “Something only I’ll see. At least for now.”
A breath punches out of her. She doesn’t pull away.
Good.
I turn my mouth toward Frankie. “Raider sigil. Wrapped in roses. Thorns sharp.”
Frankie’s smile is pure evil. “You’re a romantic psychopath.”
Valentina narrows her eyes. “I hate both of you.”
But the way her knees press together tells a different story.
She straightens. “Then I get to choose yours.”
“Yes,” I say instantly.
“Saint Valentine,” she says, and the name lands like a hand closing around my spine. “Right here.” She presses her palm flat to my sternum, fingers spread, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. “Over your heart.”
My breath stutters. The world contracts to her hand, her fingers, the soft pressure. I want to cover her hand with mine and hold it there until our bones fuse.
