Page 63 of Ink Me Three Times
Not the dizzying thrill of stolen kisses or the way Timothy made me laugh like I mattered. Not Mitchell’s smolder or Freddie’s cheeky intensity. Not the attention or the tension or the twisted knot of confusion tying itself tighter every time I let something happen.
This.
This little girl who trusts me enough to offer her blankie. Who calls me Coach Ivy and pats my boob like she’s blessing me. Who is watching me more closely than I realized.
She needs me to be stable. To be present. To not burn down this temporary haven with my bad decisions and impulse control issues.
I rub my hands over my face.
What the hell am I doing?
The front door opens a minute later, and I sit up straighter, like I haven’t just been spiraling on the couch like a woman in a daytime soap.
Freddie walks in, keys in hand, hair wind mussed and jaw tight. He looks tired. And tense.
He stops when he sees me on the couch, Penny curled up beside me. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, warmth maybe, or gratitude, but it’s chased off quick by something stormier.
"You okay?" he asks, nodding toward me as he toes off his boots.
"Yeah," I lie. "Just hanging out."
Freddie sets his keys in the little bowl by the door and shrugs off his jacket, movements stiff.
"Thanks for staying late," he says, voice flat. "Didn’t realize my day would run that long."
"No problem," I say, too quickly. "She wore me out, but she was a delight."
He nods, distracted, rubbing the back of his neck as he heads into the kitchen. There’s something about the way his shoulders are set that makes the breath catch in my throat. I can feel it coming, like thunder just under the clouds.
I follow him before I can talk myself out of it.
"You seem... off," I say quietly, hovering in the kitchen doorway as he opens the fridge and stares into it like it owes him answers. "Everything okay?"
He huffs a breath, not looking at me. "Just tired."
It’s not a lie. But it’s not the truth either. There’s a charge in the room now, something brittle and sharp around the edges. I press forward anyway.
"Freddie," I say gently. "Did something happen?"
He doesn’t answer at first. Just grabs a beer, twists the cap off, and sets it down on the counter with a clink. Then he leans against the counter and finally looks at me.
His eyes are tired. Guarded. And something else. Hurt, maybe. Or betrayed.
"I had it out with Mitchell and Timothy today," he says, voice quiet but heavy. "At the shop."
My stomach dips. "Oh."
"Yeah." He laughs once, humorless. "Guess it was a long time coming, honestly. We’ve been off for a while. But today just… tipped it."
The air goes thin between us. I feel myself curling in, instinctively bracing.
"What happened?" I ask, though I already know.
Freddie just watches me for a moment. His jaw ticks. His mouth presses into a line. He looks like he’s weighing something behind his eyes… like whatever he’s holding back is heavy and personal and sharp around the edges.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. Controlled. "Things came to a head, that’s all. Long time coming."
It’s vague. Purposefully so. But the way his eyes flick to me, then away again, the way something flickers in them, hurt or resentment or just exhaustion, makes the hairs on my neck stand up.
