Carved in Her Bones

Tomas(Peter) -NOW

I was one hundred percent obsessed with this girl. Being near her felt like a privilege—like she was doing me a favor just by letting me exist in her orbit.

"You sure you don't want me to get your back?" I teased, watching her shower.

She laughed, shaking her head. "No, Tomas. Then we'll be stuck here all day. I have work, and I'm sure you do too."

I leaned against the doorframe, captivated as she worked shampoo through her hair. The way she moved, the little smile she gave herself in the mirror—it was hypnotic. Goddamn, she was beautiful. I had no business just standing there, not with an army of meetings to attend, but I couldn't help myself.

"We have a gala next week. In Geneva. You're coming with me."

She turned, giving me that look, the one where she knew exactly what I was doing. "You're doing it again, Tomas. That thing where you say instead of ask."

"Okay, love," I relented, grabbing a towel and holding it out for her. She took it, wrapping it around her hair before walking past me, heading to the closet. I followed her like a lost puppy. It wasn't intentional—it was as if my body had decided for me. I couldn't help it. I needed to be close to her.

"Baby, I'd love it if you came to Geneva with me," I tried again, softening my approach.

"Okay," she said as she rifled through her closet. "But we take the train."

"Why?" I asked, confused. "Why choose a form of transport that wastes over a day?"

"Because it's fun."

"Okay, train it is," I said, not wanting to argue. "But we fly back. And... I'd love to meet your new friend for drinks after work. My treat."

She spun around sharply, her expression suspicious. She could see right through me. The truth was, I didn't want to meet her friend just to be polite—I wanted him to know that she was mine. Completely and utterly spoken for.

"Tomas, what are you doing?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Trying to get to know you better," I said, feigning innocence.

"No," she said flatly. "You're not meeting my new friend. And I know exactly why you want to. He already knows I have you."

"I see," I said, though I wasn't giving up. "But I'd still like to buy him a drink."

"No." She turned back to the mirror, tying her damp hair into a messy bun. "And now I'm late."

She wasn't wearing any makeup, and I loved it. I loved her like this—raw, unfiltered, and all mine. She kissed me lightly on the lips as she made to leave, but that wasn't enough for me. I grabbed her waist and pulled her back in, deepening the kiss. My hands gripped her hips, anchoring her to me as I pulled her bottom lip into my mouth, biting and sucking just enough to leave a mark.

She pulled back, her fingers brushing over her lip. "Tomas, seriously? That's juvenile. You can't just leave marks on me because you've convinced yourself every man is in love with me."

"I can't help it," I murmured, leaning in again.

She didn't let me. "I'm leaving now," she said firmly, slamming the door behind her as she walked out.

She was mad.

This was the first time she'd ever been mad at me. 

A peverse part of me enjoyed this. But i needed to remedy this before she came back

I shot her a quick text:

Me: I'll pick you up after work.

Rhian: I have plans.

Me: What plans?

Rhian: My friend and I are going out for a drink to discuss unhealthy and possessive boyfriends.

Me: My favorite topic. I'll come with.

Rhian: Tomas, I'm mad at you for marking me. I'll text you when I'm over it.

Me: How long would that take? Need a timeline.

Rhian: As long as I feel. Bye. Love you.

I stared at the screen for a moment, debating. Finally, I typed:

Me: How do you feel about marriage?

Rhian: So not the time, Tomas.

I liked what she'd done with her apartment. It reminded me of mine back in Kraków, except for the books. The library was packed—volumes of classical music texts, then the classics: Woolf, Hemingway, Shakespeare, Dickens, Bukowski. She didn't venture much beyond those.

Near the bottom shelf, I spotted a thinner book, clearly a music notebook. From my piano lessons as a child, I recognized it wasn't classical. Jazz, maybe, or a mix of genres. She was writing music. I liked that.

The morning slipped by in a blur. The consultants we'd hired to draft the EMA documentation were exceptional. I'd fought tooth and nail with the board to bring them in, and now, every one of the 500 euros per hour they were charging was proving to be worth it.

Just as we wrapped our first session, a text from Rhian lit up my phone:

Rhian: I ordered you lunch. It'll be there in 20 minutes. I know you don't like the ramen or the junk I have.

Me: Thank you, baby. Why just the classics?

Rhian: Books, you mean?

Me: Yes.

Rhian: It was all that was in our home library growing up. I sort of fell in love with them.

Me: With Virginia Woolf?

Rhian: Her writing doesn't make fans out of readers, but I enjoy her.

I smiled, imagining her defending Woolf to herself.

The thought of her with her books, her music, her ridiculous temper—all of it made me want her more.

Lunch arrived: grilled salmon with summer vegetables and a salad. The girl knows me.

I thought for a moment, poking at the food. I'd never bought Rhian flowers. Maybe it was time. A thank-you for the salmon. Plus, it wouldn't hurt if the men she worked with knew her boyfriend was sending her roses.

I dialed Clarissa on zoom and waited for her annoyed face to appear.

"Hi, Peter," she answered, deadpan. "What do you want?"

"Good to see you're happy to hear from me," I replied, smirking.

She glared at me through the Zoom call.

"Could you send Rhian flowers? To her work."

"What kind of flowers, Peter?"

"Roses, I think."

"Cool. What else?"

"A car. I need a car while I'm here. And could you check if I'm clear to stay in Berlin for the next three weeks?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm glad to see you're traveling and having fun like this, Peter."

"Don't even—" I started, cutting myself off with a laugh.

Clarissa rolled her eyes but smiled. I knew she'd handle it, as always.