Page 32 of Tattooed Vow

We step outside into the type of morning that tricks you. It feels cool, but the sun warms your skin just enough to be comforting. The breeze carries the scent of pine and damp earth, and far off, the low hum of bees busy in the brush.

The trees stand tall and thick around the cabin, their branches layered with golden and green leaves that flutter softly. A carpet of pine needles, still damp from yesterday’s rain, softens our steps as we walk. The woods are alive with a quiet kind of music. Bird calls, the rustle of squirrels in the canopy, and the soft whisper of wind moving through the branches.

We don’t speak at first. Our footsteps are the only sound between us, crunching on the soft pine needles until we cross into the forest path.

I watch her from the corner of my eye. She moves with careful grace, her steps measured and quiet. Always aware, always alert. The instinct of someone who has learned early to watch for danger. Her gaze sweeps the tree line regularly, unconsciously mapping escape routes. I recognize the behavior because it’s mine, too. We are both survivors, shaped by different crucibles but forged with the same instinct: stay alive, whatever it takes.

The morning sun catches in her hair again, turning it into a living flame. I remember how it had felt tangled in my fingers last night, soft and wild.

Sandy finally breaks the silence. “Last night… I keep trying to convince myself it was a mistake.”

My chest tightens. I turn toward her, searching her expression. “And?”

She glances at me, her deep blue eyes unreadable. “I can’t. Because it wasn’t.”

I nod once, slowly. “It wasn’t a mistake for me, either.”

She looks away, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “I don’t know what to do with that,” she says softly.

“I know,” I murmur. “I get it.”

I want to say more. Need to. But my throat feels like it’s made of stone. Still, something in me cracks open, if only slightly. “Blyat,” I grumble. “I’ve never felt this way—not once. And I don’t know what the hell to do with it.”

She says nothing, but she doesn’t turn away either.

“I’m not good at this,” I admit. “Letting people in. Letting anything in. I’m better at shutting it all out. It’s safer that way. For me and the people around me.”

She finally looks up at me, her bottom lip caught gently between her teeth. “So, you’re saying this—whatever this is—it’s too dangerous?”

“No,” I say immediately. “I’m sayingI’mdangerous. And I don’t want you getting hurt.”

I don’t add because I’m falling for you. I don’t say because I’m already too far gone. But it’s there in my voice and the truth behind the words.

She stares at me for a long moment, then nods and lets the silence stretch between us again.

We walk further into the woods, following a narrow path curved around a small stream. The water trickles over moss-coveredrocks, clear and cold, a reminder of how things can be. Pure, untouched by the darkness that follows us both.

“I had a dream last night,” she says suddenly, her voice soft. “About my mother.”

I tense slightly, knowing what little she had shared before. The addiction. The abandonment. The police officer who had found eleven-year-old Sandy in a foster home and delivered the news that her mother was found dead in an alley with a needle still in her arm.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, careful not to push.

She shakes her head, then hesitates. “It was different this time. Usually, I dream about that day—the police coming, telling me she was gone. The social worker with that rehearsed sympathetic face.” Her voice hardens. “As if I didn't already know she was as good as dead years before they found her body.”

I remain silent, giving her space to continue if she wants.

“But last night...” She looks up at me, her eyes haunted but somehow clearer. “Last night, I dreamed she was clean. Healthy. That she came back for me.” A bitter smile touches her lips. “Stupid, right? Even in my dreams, I can't let go of that little-girl fantasy.”

“It's not stupid,” I state. “We all carry the regret of what should have been.”

She kicks at a pinecone on the path. “She chose the high over me. Every single time.”

“Addiction isn't a choice,” I say carefully.

“Maybe not. But getting help is.” Sandy's voice is flat. “She never even tried.”

I want to reach for her, to ease the rigid tension in her shoulders, but I know better. Some wounds aren’t meant to be touched.

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