Well Beyond

31

I woke to the soft light of morning filtering through the curtains, casting gentle rays across the room. I lay still for a moment, savoring the warmth of the bed and the silence of the house. The unfamiliar yet oddly comforting scent of Erik's space surrounded me. I ran my fingers through my tousled hair and, taking a deep breath, decided to venture out of the room. I needed to get my bearings and, honestly, a distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts still tumbling through my mind.

As I padded down the hallway, the house was eerily quiet except for the faint sounds of clattering from the kitchen. My curiosity and the enticing aroma of breakfast led me forward. When I reached the kitchen, the sight before me stopped me in my tracks.

Erik stood at the stove, shirtless, his muscular back and shoulders illuminated by the morning light streaming through the window. His ritualistic tattoos, a web of intricate designs, covered most of his back, chest, abdomen, and arms. The patterns seemed to come alive with the play of light and shadow, each curve and line telling a story of tradition and power. I couldn't help but be drawn to the striking contrast of his dark tattoos against his tanned skin.

He was focused on the task at hand, his movements fluid and practiced as he stirred something on the stove. His hair was tousled from sleep, and his face was a picture of concentration. I stood there for a moment, simply observing, my heart fluttering at the sight of him so casually domestic.

Finally, he turned, his gaze meeting mine with a hint of surprise and a warm smile. His eyes darkened as he takes in my - his - clothes.

"Morning," he said, his voice deep and soothing. He motioned towards the kitchen counter, where a steaming pot of coffee and a plate of food awaited.

"Good morning," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. As I approached, the sound of my footsteps seemed to draw him back to reality.

"Help yourself," he offered, returning to his cooking with a casual grace. I moved closer, trying to shake off the lingering unease. The sight of him, so comfortable and natural, made the room feel warmer.

He continues to cook breakfast in relative silence, the occasional stirring and the soft sizzle from the stove the only sounds breaking the quiet. I couldn't help but steal glances at Erik's tattoos, each one a silent testament to his culture and his acceptance of me.

I felt a flush creep up my neck at the thought of being caught staring. I quickly looked away, focusing on the modern kitchen in front of me, but the warmth in my cheeks lingered.

"You're not subtle when you stare, Delia," Erik said, his voice holding a teasing edge. He glanced over at me with a knowing grin, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Go ahead, ask about them."

I hesitated for a moment, my curiosity piqued despite my embarrassment. I met his gaze again, this time with a mixture of hesitation and intrigue.

I studied Erik's tattoos, my gaze lingering on the intricate designs that coiled around his body, their dark ink contrasting sharply with his skin. For the first time in a while, I allowed my eyes to trace the mark on his chest, which remained unchanged from when I last saw it, but now appeared even more pronounced, surrounded by a network of new tattoos. The sight was oddly compelling, drawing my attention away from my own mark and making me wonder about the symbolism behind it all.

"Why tattoos?" I asked, breaking the silence that had settled between us. "You already have the mark. Why add these tattoos?"

Erik's eyes flickered with a hint of amusement as he looked up from the stove. He seemed to consider my question for a moment before turning off the burner and walking over to the counter. With a thoughtful expression, he leaned against the edge, his posture relaxed but attentive.