Page 54 of When Love Found Us
I shouldn’t care.
Not about the way he moves around the kitchen like he belongs there. Like he belongs here.
Not about the way his voice dips when he calls me sweetheart like he knows exactly what it does to me.
Not about the fact that he’s shirtless now.
Wait.
What?
I blink, my brain short-circuiting. When did that happen?
Because he wasn’t when I walked in, I know that for a fact because I spent way too much time staring at the way his shirt clung to his back.
Now, it’s slung over the back of a chair, leaving hard muscle and ink on full display. And, fuck, I’m staring.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
It’s impossible to.
The tattoos stretch across his shoulders, dip along his ribs, dark ink against warm skin. Some are intricate, carefully drawn, others look like they were added later, layered over old scars.
They shouldn’t be attractive. Not to me.
My parents used to say tattoos were trashy. That only people with no class would have them. I never understood. But I believed them, the way kids believe everything they’re told—until college. That’s when I realized my parents—and the people around them—were just judgmental assholes who had no idea what the fuck they were talking about.
They labeled people because it made them feel superior. Because it was easier to put people in neat little boxes than to admit they weren’t better than anyone else. Someone should tell them they’re terrible people. That the man who they handed me to almost killed me, and this man who they would look at like a nobody is a perfect gentleman who’s cared more for me in two weeks than anyone else in my entire life.
Unfortunately, I can’t. Not because I don’t want to give them a piece of my mind but because I’m hiding. The last thing I want is to give my location to Winston.
Maybe one day, I’ll be able to come out of hiding and tell them that tattoos look good. On Atlas . . . they also look dangerous.
His back flexes as he moves, muscles shifting, ink stretching with every precise movement.
I tell myself to stop looking.
I don’t.
And that’s when he catches me. His gaze locks onto mine, and something shifts in his expression. Something dark. Intentional.
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease.
He just watches.
Like a predator waiting. Measuring.
Like he knows exactly what I was thinking.
I should look away.
I don’t.
Not when he moves.
Not when he takes one slow, deliberate step forward. Then another.
