Page 38 of Rebound My Alpha
"Did someone leave this?" he asks.
Nobody claims it. Benji shrugs. Jude says it probably belongs to the bar. Declan, wiping down the counter nearby, catches sight of it. His expression shifts into a small, private smile. He doesn't explain.
Soren slips the bird into his pocket and doesn't say anything else, but his fingers brush his jacket pocket twice on the walk to the cars. I see it. I don't say anything.
By the time we get back to my apartment, the loud chaos of the bar is a distant memory. Benji kicks his beat-to-hell boots off by the door and heads straight for the bedroom. I follow him. I follow him everywhere now, and I don't have the slightest desire to be anywhere else.
The nest is fully ours now. Blankets tangled, pillows stacked exactly the way Benji likes them, my shirts and his band tees woven into the fabric. The hoodie I wore the night I sat in the hospital waiting room is still tucked into the pillows on my side. The scent in the sheets isn't just him or me anymore; it's theheavy, intoxicating mix of both of us. It smells like the only place I've ever felt completely still.
My sketchbook sits on the nightstand, open to a recent page. It’s a sketch of the booth at Byrne's. Jude draped over Rhys, Milo tucked under Callum's arm, Shay at the edge, Soren looking out the window. Benji right in the center, chin resting on his hand, the claiming bite visible. Mars is scowling in the corner because I drew him once and he’s never going to live it down. It's the first page that's full of people instead of just Benji's face. I leave it open because I like seeing it when I wake up.
Benji is already in bed, wearing my shirt and his boxers, his hair a total mess. I slide in behind him, and the nest closes around us. The choreography is automatic. My arm wraps around his waist. My nose finds the claiming bite at the base of his neck. I press my lips against the scarred tissue—a reflex I picked up somewhere around week three and haven't managed to break.
My hand settles on his hip, my thumb brushing over the fresh ink.
It's a small design. Benji doodled it on a napkin at the shop while Mars was bitching about inventory, and I took it and turned it into something that fit his skin. It was the first time I put my needle to his body. We were both quiet in the chair, his hand gripping the armrest exactly the way it did the night I drew on him with a pen. Except this time, the ink stays. It’s been a week, and the skin is still slightly raised under my thumb. I touch it every night because I still can't quite believe I got to make something permanent on him.
"Stop poking my tattoo," Benji mutters into his pillow.
"It's my tattoo. I made it."
"It'sonme. Therefore, mine. Property law."
I press my lips to the claiming bite again and don't argue. My thumb traces the raised ink, and his body presses back intomine, warm and solid. Outside the apartment, the city does whatever the fuck the city does. Inside the nest, Benji's breathing slows as he drifts off.
I close my eyes. My hand rests over the ink I put on his skin, his pulse beating steady beneath my mouth. I'm not running anymore. I'm staying.
***
