Page 62 of Beautiful Ruins
She hesitated one beat longer.Then she stepped inside.Slowly.
I guess she wasn’t used to taking the wiser option.
The air in the room tightened as she crossed the threshold.The scent of her—clean, warm and faintly sweet—cut through the lingering steam.
She stopped a few feet away.
Her eyes moved over me again, slower this time.
“You’re staring, Izzy.”
“So are you.”
“Fair.”
She crossed her arms loosely, but it wasn’t defensive.
“You left your door open.”
“I was worried about you.I didn’t want you waking alone.”
That made her pause.The teasing edge softened.
“Oh.”
We held each other’s gaze.
“You didn’t sleep properly.”
“I slept,” I told her.
“In my bed.”
“Yes.”
She tilted her head slightly.“You’re full of surprises.”
“I try my best.”
Her eyes dipped again, tracing the lines of my torso.I saw the exact moment she realized she wasn’t subtle.
Her chin lifted.
I pushed off the dresser and took one step closer.Not enough to crowd her.Just enough to feel the space tighten.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes drifted to my chest again, slower this time.They traced the ink across my skin, following the lines like they were trying to make sense of them—like the tattoos were a language she might be able to read if she studied long enough.
I knew what she saw.
I’d studied my own body long enough to understand how it looked to other people.
Broad shoulders.Thick muscle built from years of discipline and damage.Skin not entirely smooth—scar tissue tucked beneath the ink in leathery patches, reminders of things that had tried and failed to kill me.The tattoos didn’t hide the past; they layered over it.Marked it.Claimed it.
None of them were decorative.Every piece meant something.Every line carved into my skin marked a time, a place, a version of myself I could never return to.
At thirty-two, I was already a widower.Already a father without a child.That kind of loss doesn’t soften you.It calcifies.It strips away excess until only function remains.
