Page 20 of Indigo

“Pax…”

He places his mug down, grabs my chin, and tilts my head up. “I can keep you safe at home, away from him. You can start again, figure out your next move with people around you that fucking adore you. Please don’t let that stubborn part of you tell you this isn’t a good idea. Home is as good a place as any to start over, Blue. You. Are. Not. Failing. By coming back to Scarlett Bay. You’rechoosingto be happy.”

I gulp, swallowing down the emotion bubbling in my throat. “What if–”

“Uh-uh,” he says, moving back to his side of the couch and holding his arm up, clearly waiting for me to climb in next to him. “No more, tonight. You can process, think, make a list, whatever you want, but do it tomorrow.”

How am I not supposed to ask any more questions? How the hell did he organise all of this? Did he do it while I was in the damn shower? I’m more than a little confused.

I go to speak again, to tell him I need more information, but when he looks at me and I see the longing in his eyes shining back at me, the only thing I can manage to do is scooch closer to him, snuggle into his side like I have a thousand times before and let the warmth of his body comfort me.

It feels like I’m already home when his arm comes around me and holds me tighter against him. He lets out a contented sigh and kisses the top of my head before lifting the remote and pressing play.

I let my eyes close and imagine the life I could have if I just took the leap and went home. To my mum, to my town, to him.

“I’ll come home,” I say, sleep pulling me under. “I’ll come home.”

???

“Blue.” A whisper carries across the room the next morning. “Blue, baby, wake up. I made you a coffee.”

I hum happily into my pillow as the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills my bedroom. I’m not sure if I’m simply having a really wonderful dream, or if someone’s broken into my apartment and decided to caffeinate me before stealing all my shit.

“Blue,” the voice says again.

My eyes snap open as the memories of last night become less foggy and I realise I’m not dreaming. Sitting up quickly, clutching my blanket to my chest, I spot a very shirtless Pax standing in the doorway, the light from the hallway behind him illuminating his silhouette.

He’s like a fucking wet dream, standing there with sleepy eyes and bed hair that still somehow looks incredible even after spending a night on my rock hard couch.

Pax and I had been close before I left. Very fucking close, but never in my life have I seen him shirtless.

I can’t look away.

I shamelessly take in the shape of his pecs, the divots between his abs, the way his sweats hang just right from his hips, and the tattoos. Good lord, the tattoos. The ink moulds to his body, covering not only his chest, but his entire upper body, as if it’s simply the natural pattern of his skin.

Slowly, I climb out of bed, unable to pull my eyes away, and stumble my way toward him.

Seven daisies are drawn across his left pec. I can’t pinpoint where I’ve seen them before, but I raise a hand as I get closer, the morning haze convincing me I need to touch him, make sure he’s real.

I study the familiar pattern and as my fingers make contact with his warm skin, and his body tenses. Cocking my head to the side, I lift my eyes to his, and I’m met with pure hunger, radiating off him in waves.

I pull my hand back quickly, unsure if it’s my touch that caused his reaction, but before I can step backwards, he gently grasps my wrist. “You can touch me,” he whispers with a cocky smirk on his beautiful face before placing my palm back over the flower tattoo. “Touch me,” he repeats, his voice turning hoarse and almost pleading.

“They’re beautiful…”

“You drew those when you were thirteen,” he whispers, his hand holding mine in place. I study the petals, the leaves, the odd shading and the sketched lines. “After I brought you that bunch of flowers for your birthday, you drew this for me. Said boys were allowed flowers, too. Remember?” I nod, vaguely recalling the conversation he’s talking about. I drew him a lot of things back then, thinking myself somewhat of an artist. Now, I mainly doodle on pieces of scrap paper when deep in thought.

“Got them put there a couple of years ago when I found the original in a bunch of paperwork in my filing cabinet. Figured this way I carry them with me.”

“You had it tattooed over your heart.” I breathe out, not asking, simply stating the words so that they sink into my mind, which is currently spinning.

“Yep,” he says simply, running one hand through his hair. “You got a hair tie or something I can borrow, Blue? My hair’s just going to annoy the shit out of me if it’s down.”

He raises an eyebrow after a moment, making me realise that I’ve been staring a little too long, fighting the urge to bury my hands in his deep brown hair. He’s grown it out a little since the last time I saw him, and the ends now reach below his wide shoulders. I’ve always had a minor obsession with the way it waves slightly at the ends and frames his face perfectly, calling attention to the sharpness of his cheekbones.

“A hair tie. Yes. Um, here.” I slide the pink and white polka dot scrunchie I have around my wrist off and offer it to him.

He smirks and takes it without a word. I watch as his muscles bunch and flex while he secures it in place, the wolf he has inked into his bicep looking as though it’s actually moving. A bear, a lion, and a snake that wraps around his forearm, ending at his wrist, also stare back at me, fitting together to complete the full sleeve he has going on, but the wolf has me curious. It seems out of place. Lonely, howling at the moon drawn just above it.“Why a wolf?” I ask.

---