Page 90 of Inked Desires
Since he lost his memory, he has these moments of wide-eyed innocence. Most of the time, he’s all sharp wit and stubborn fire. But sometimes, I catch a glimpse of the teenager he used to be.
“Yes. Come on. I don’t bite. And I promise to keep my hands to myself tonight,” I add with a small smile.
He relaxes. After a moment’s hesitation, he crosses the room and slips under the covers.
I turn onto my side. He mirrors me. In the dim light, our eyes meet.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Thank you?” I echo.
He nods as much as the pillow allows, tucking one hand beneath his cheek.
“I needed you… and you came. I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits, voice heavy with exhaustion.
I brush my fingers through his curls.
“Don’t thank me for that. I’ll always come for you. No matter where you are. If you need me, just call.”
A shy smile spreads across his face.
“I promise not to take advantage of your hospitality. Tomorrow morning, I’ll start looking for an apartment,” he murmurs, already half-asleep.
“You’re staying here,” I reply without hesitation.
But he doesn’t hear me.
A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. He looks so young and fragile when he sleeps.
I stay awake a while longer, watching his curls spill across my pillow.
If only we could stay like this.
Safe.
At peace.
Cut off from the world.
I wake up after far too little sleep. I reach out gently with one hand.
Nothing.
Just a half-empty bed.
I frown and open my eyes reluctantly. Andrew’s gone. Fuck. I should probably start thinking about chaining him to me so he’ll stop vanishing like that.
Annoyed, I toss back the covers and get up. My body doesn’t seem to understand that I’m awake yet—every movement is sluggish, hesitant. I shuffle down the hallway. The bathroom door is open: no sign of him. Not in the living room either.
It’s in the kitchen that I finally find him.
He’s sitting on a chair, wearing my oversized T-shirt, one leg tucked against his chest and hidden beneath the fabric. That shirt? He can keep it. He’s stretched it out so much it might as well be a damn tent.
Nose buried in a newspaper, he sips his coffee at the same time. The image hits me hard. I could stare at him like this for hours.
“Morning,” I call to get his attention.
He jumps, sloshing a bit of coffee onto the front of his makeshift tent. He straightens up immediately and glares at me.
