“Wait…what?”
“Really. Under significant pressure.”
“Don’t make me get up off this table.”
“Oh, you won’t.”
She’s right. I won’t.
Standing up right now would be a commitment I’m not prepared to make in front of another human being.
Her hands move over my shoulder again, slower this time, finding the line of tension under the joint.
Then they stop.
Not fully. Not enough to make it obvious.
But I feel the pause.
Her eyes are on my right arm.
The griffin.
Most people ask about the mask first. The number. The glove. The saves. Women ask about the body if they think they can get away with it.
Nova looks at the ink like it surprises her.
“That mean something?” she asks.
I glance down at my arm. “Guardian.”
Her fingers press into my shoulder again, but her rhythm’s different now.
“That’s it?”
“Power. Courage. Protection.”
I say it simple because it is simple. Or it was when I got it.
Something crosses her face.
Fast. Gone before most people would catch it.
I catch it.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Nova.”
“It’s just…” She looks at the tattoo again, then back to my shoulder like my muscles suddenly require all available focus. “Interesting.”
“That’s one word.”
“It’s the one I’m using.”
Fair enough.
