Page 100 of The Heart

I chuckle and we smile at each other for a long moment, both of us thankful that he’s lying here right now, and not back on that rooftop.

“I can do that.”

—

“Fuck,Leena!” Colton shouts.

“Sorry, sorry! That was the last one.” I let out a breath, then work to tie off the end of the stitch before cleaning the area. “You doing okay?” I ask him, looking over my work one last time before securing the bandage over it.

“I’m fine, I’m used to it,” he breathes out, gesturing to his body, which is still mostly naked aside from my sweater and where his shirt is bunched above his chest. I furrow my brows, wondering what he’s talking about.

But then I look… really look.

And I see them.

I don’t know how I didn’t before. I guess on Christmas Eve, I was busy avoiding him. And on stage, these wouldn’t have been visible from where I was sitting.

Tears well in my eyes as I study his muscled form, and I can’t help but trace my fingertips over the tattoo on his ribcage. Because every one of his tattoos is placed strategically to disguise the scars underneath.

So many scars.

I keep touching him. It’s as if I can feel his pain through my fingertips. I’m crying now, I know I am, but I don’t want to stop the tears. I want to know what this man went through.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Leena. I didn’t realize you’ve never noticed them before,” he says softly, grunting as he works himself into somewhat of a sitting position.

“Are these from–”

“My dad? Yup. Most of them anyway. There’s a few from my adrenaline junkie days.” He chuckles, then inhales a sharp breath through his teeth when it causes him pain.

Colton told me enough about what he went through before his father died that his attempt to lighten the mood doesn’t really work. And if I start thinking about that, I might never stop crying.

So I study his tattoos instead.

They don’tcoverthe scars per se, it’s almost as though they were designed around them, adding something to the piece that wouldn’t otherwise be there.

“Who designed these? They’re beautiful,” I say, ghosting my fingers along the ones on his chest before looking up to find him watching me carefully. I’m not sure what emotion I find there, but I’m unable to look away.

“I did,” he says so softly, I barely hear him.

I let more of my tears fall. Because this man took something horrible, something heart-wrenching and traumatic, and turned it into something beautiful that he shows off to the world on stage every night.

I’m in awe of him.

“Leena?” he says my name in a way that makes my heart skip a beat.

“Yes?” I ask, my breath stalled.

“You can’t look at me like this, or touch me like that, when my pants are off,” he says in barely a whisper. And I wonder at what point his playful flirting turned into…this.

I’m so busy staring at him, trying to figure him out, I don’t even realize that the fingers that lingered at his chest are starting to fall, brushing lightly down between his pecs, tracing his toned abdominals and lower until his hand snatches my wrist in a firm grip.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

Thatsnaps me out of it, and I decide to teasehimfor a change. “Distracting you from your injury and lifetime of trauma. Is it working?”

He stares at me for a long moment.

“Pants. Now,” he says firmly, letting go of my wrist.

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