PULSE [H.S]

054

"A painting is a gift of the soul, an offering from the heart." – Unknown

I stare at my boyfriend.

Wow, it feels weird calling him that.

I lay on my stomach on the bed, resting my head on my hands and looking at him. I say, "I made you something while you were passed out for a few days."

His eyebrows raise. "Did you now?"

"Mhmm," I hum, running my finger up his arm, "but I'm nervous to give it to you."

Harry plays with a strand of my hair, twirling it around his finger. He says, "What makes you nervous?"

I shrug. "I don't know. You might not like it."

He half-smiles. "You could give me a piece of trash, and it would be the most special thing I own."

"Yeah, right," I laugh as I slide off of the bed to go retrieve the gift. I kept it in the guest room, which is also where I made it and where I slept those few terrible nights he wasn't awake.

I haven't painted in a long time, since my form of art became tattoos. But something made me pick up a paintbrush the other day, and I painted the first thing that came to mind.

I bring it back to Harry's room, showing the landscape canvas to him. He sits up, looking at it. His eyebrows furrow, like he's trying to put the pieces together.

I say nervously, "I'm not the best painter, but..."

"You painted this?" he asks, taking it in. I nod at him. He says, "That's the painting from the foster home. The lake."

I nod, feeling insecure. I say, "You told me once how much you loved it when you were there, so I...recreated it for you."

He stands up, taking the painting from me and studying it more. He sets it down against the desk and wraps his arms around my waist, kissing me softly.

He says, "I love it, Kiz."

"Really?" My cheeks burn.

He says, "Yes, it's perfect."

He picks it up again, and I help him pick out a spot on the wall for it to go. He finds a place that he likes and sets it down again, disappearing from the room. When he returns, he has a hammer and some nails in his hand. He hangs it up right away, making me smile.

We sit back on the bed and stare at it together.

He asks me, "Do you like painting?"

I say, "Yeah, sometimes. It doesn't compare to tattoos, though. Oh, I might have to repair your butterfly someday."

His wound has fully healed, but there's scarring in the middle of the butterfly from where the bullet was.

Harry says, "Yeah, he's looking a little deformed, especially since whoever stitched me up made the line crooked."

I push him, and he falls backwards on the bed. I flip over, putting the top half of my body on him. I say, "Shut up. I had just dug my fingers inside of you. I was a little shaken up."

He says, "Prefer it when the roles are reversed?"

It takes me a second to understand what he's saying, but when it clicks, I can't help but laugh.

"Definitely."

He smirks.

I slide his shirt up, and he gets the hint, throwing it off of him. I run my finger over some of the other tattoos on his arm and on his chest. He rests his hand on the small of my back. I gently trace the butterfly, not getting too close to the scar.