Page 54 of Take Care, Taylor
It was the first time he’d ever stepped inside. I suddenly saw the space through his eyes—too many coffee mugs, Post-its stuck to the wall, my unmade bed crowding the corner. His gaze swept over my desk, pausing on the stacks of papers and the mess of half-finished drafts.
“You actually live like this?” he asked, smirking.
“It’s called multitasking.”
He set everything on my dresser and turned back to me.
“Turn around,” he said.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
I sighed and obeyed, bracing myself for some sarcastic remark.
Instead, his hands pressed gently to my shoulders—warm, steady, and unexpectedly careful. His thumbs brushed the base of my neck before pressing deeper, tracing the tension until I almost forgot to breathe. The ache that had been pulsing for hours melted beneath his touch, replaced by something quieter, heavier.
A quiet sound escaped me before I could stop it.
He traced a finger along the gray phoenix tattoo on the back of my left shoulder.
“When did you get this?”
“A very long time ago.”
“It wasn’t there last year…”
“How would you know?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. His touch deepened, and I fought another involuntary sound.
“I got it two months ago,” I admitted.
“Hmm.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what it means?”
“I think I have a pretty good idea.”
“Try me.”
“Rising from the ashes like a phoenix,” he said. “Though I’m guessing there’s something hidden in the feathers too. Am I right?”
Yes.“Nope.”
His low laugh brushed over my skin like a spark, and I kept my eyes shut—pretending his hands didn’t feel like relief.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“Slightly.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” His tone softened. “If you need another one, let me know.”
“Why are you being nice to me today?” I turned around to face him. “What’s your motive?”
“I can’t claim to beat you if you’re not feeling well,” he said. “I want to beat you at your best—so you know there aren’t any excuses when you lose.”
“Thank you for being honest.”
“You’re more than welcome.”
