Page 42 of Inked Desires
“What happened in Iraq?”
I stand up and grab my plate.
“Enough stories for today,” I say, louder than intended.“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
I clear the table and leave him alone. Reopening old wounds is painful, but it’s more than that. I don’t want to admit to him that I was a coward. I can barely admit it to myself.
The hot water on my neck relaxes me a little. I hate talking about the past—it’s neither beautiful nor heroic.
The door opens. Of course, this man never leaves me alone in the shower. In just a few days, we’ve become inseparable. Everything’s moving too fast, I know. I can feel it coming—the inevitable crash—but I can’t slow down. There’s this voice, deep inside, begging me to think, like it already knows how the story ends.
“The scar on my back…” he begins, leaning on the sink.
His hands tremble slightly, enough for me to notice. He doesn’t look at me. His eyes get lost in the mirror, as if seeing another version of himself—one he’d rather forget.
“It was one night,” he continues, his voice hoarse.“A man touched me there.”
He absentmindedly brushes his shoulder blade.
“He didn’t mean harm, just… he hadn’t seen the tattoo on my neck. After that, his arm ended up broken, and I kept this,” he says, pointing to the scar.
Silent tears gather at the corners of his eyes. His beautiful eyes, so often filled with determination, are elsewhere—trapped in a memory he doesn’t fully share. I watch him, helpless. Seeing a man as strong as Andrew broken like this leaves me speechless. All I feel is a dull rage building inside me. That bastard… I want to rip his balls off. Nobody deserves that. Nobody.
I open the shower door and step out quietly. Without hesitation, I place my hands on his bare arms, hoping to offer some comfort. His skin is icy beneath my fingers, despite the steam filling the bathroom. He stays frozen, staring into the mirror, until finally his gaze shifts to me.
“Now you know another one of my miserable secrets,” he murmurs, voice broken.
His words hit me straight in the heart. I can’t bear the pain he carries. I gently turn him toward me. His brows furrow, eyes fixed on my chest, as if refusing to look me in the eye. My fingers softly stroke his cheek, brushing away tears.
“You’re a fighter, Andrew,” I say, letting my thoughts slip out.“None of this is miserable. I want to know all your secrets.”
His forehead rests against my chest, and I feel his breath on my skin.
“I can’t, Arès. I can’t tell you everything,” he whispers, lips brushing my skin.
“Why not?”
He falls silent. The steam thickens around us until we can no longer see our reflections in the mirror.
“I don’t trust you,” he finally admits, voice barely audible.
“Why should you?”
He looks up, surprised. His eyes lock on mine, searching for an answer, a reason. But he finds nothing—or at least not what he hoped for.
“What do you mean by that?” he asks, wary.
“You don’t really know me. Why should you trust me?” I say, shrugging with a half-smile.
I grab the bottom of his T-shirt.
“Should I not? I’m still sleeping with you.”
“I can sleep with someone and hold a grudge without it having anything to do with trust,” I clarify.
“I’m living at your place,” he insists, almost exasperated, which makes me smile.
“I pretty much forced you to move in with me, didn’t I?”
