Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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I never thought I'd wake up in Tristan's arms again, but that's exactly where I am when I open my eyes. My mind is still hazy from sleep, but even so, I know immediately that I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be naked, wrapped up in the bedsheets we were tangled in last night. I shouldn't be cuddled up to him, and I definitely shouldn't be listening to his heart pound surely in his chest, attempting to lull the spiraling thoughts threatening to pull me under.
If I close my eyes, I know I could convince myself, if only for a few more hours, that this is reality. That waking up with Tristan in my bed is somehow still a possibility for us. But even as I try desperately to stay here, in this half-asleep, nothing-in-the-world-is-wrong daze, I know I'm lying to myself. Tristan and I aren't together, and tomorrow morning he'll be back in his bed, and I'll be here, alone.
My chest tightens at the thought, and when I look up, I can see the outline of him—his face, his nose, his cheeks, his eyelashes, his curls splayed out on the pillow underneath his head. He's illuminated by the moonlight washing the room in a barely-there, pre-dawn light, and he looks so serene, so complete, so different from how he's looked since we've broken up. He's had a seemingly permanent tension line between his eyes, and he's always so tense, so uneasy like he's waiting for something else to happen—to hurt him.
I know I shouldn't wake him up, but I can't help myself from tracing the curve of his cheek and the hard line of his jaw. The stubble feels amazing against the soft pad of my finger, and I want to lean over and feel it against my tongue—to taste him, to mark him the way he did me, to commit every moment of it to my memory—because I know this is the last time I'll be here like this with him.
I trail my finger from his jaw, down his neck, across his collarbone, and over his broad shoulder, where the expanse of black ink trails down his arm, stopping at his wrist. I've traced the tattoo a few times; it's all swirls, hard lines, and abstract designs. It seems like such a part of him, like it was meant to be there. I trace the ink down the swell of his bicep, and I can't imagine what he would look like without the artwork permanently pressed into his deep olive skin.
I'm so focused on tracing the lines that I don't even realize he's awake, that he's watching me. He brushes his thumb against the sensitive spot on my neck where I know a dark hickey is blooming. Closing my eyes, I revel in the touch, smiling at the thought of how the dark bruise must look—like a tattoo pressed into my skin by his rough mouth and warm tongue. His thumb brushes over the bruise again, and when I look up at him, he's considering me as if he's trying to focus wholly on this moment, too.
I should apologize for waking him up, but I can't seem to find the words because his eyes have mine locked in place. When he slides his hand up to cup my cheek, my pulse quickens in my throat.
