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“So are you.”

“Me?” I ask. “How so?”

“You smile more. You don’t seem as mad. You don’t hide your face from me anymore. And you talk now.”

“That’s because you’re like Boomer. I didn’t have much of a choice with any of it.” I say it teasingly, but it’s all true. She’s changing me.

I don’t know how to admit it, or say it, but I don’t want her to go. I prop my head up on my arm and turn to face her, the blanket falling to our waists. Her sweater has shifted, the scoop neck exposing the curve of her neck and shoulder, enticing me to caress or kiss…

Her gaze moves to my arm, which is bent between us. “Can I touch your tattoos?” she asks.

Hiding under most of my ink is bumpy, scarred flesh that a blind person could probably interpret into some strange language. No woman is going to want to feel that.

But I can’t deny her anything.

“Sure.” I force the word out, confident this will be the first and last time she’ll ever touch me.

Her hand slowly moves along my forearm, her fingers trailing over the art, and she pushes my sleeve up farther so she can see—and touch—my shoulder. When her small hand closes around my bicep, I can’t help but close my eyes and enjoy her touch for more than what it is.

“Your arm is so big and hard.” Of course, she has no idea what she’s saying—sexual innuendo isn’t something she understands—but that doesn’t change my body’s reaction to her soft-porn commentary as she squeezes my arm.

“Mmm…” is all I can manage to mumble.

“What do the designs mean?” Down to my wrist her hand moves, slowly tantalizing me.

“They’re mostly how my fucked-up brain felt at the time… abstract flowers, monsters, and words.”

“It’s all beautiful. Like a book, only better.”

“I was pretty high when I picked most of those designs out. The ink on my back is a better representation of me straight and sober.”

Her hand stills. “You do drugs?”

“Not anymore, but I had a wicked bad habit. That’s how I crashed through a glass wall and almost sliced my own head off.”

“Oh.”

Hello, surprise and horror. I knew you’d show up and take away that sweet voice of hers.

“I’m totally clean now, Holly. I have been for years.”

“Is that what happened to…” She halts herself, afraid to ask.

“To my voice?” I finish for her. “Yeah. A piece of glass severed part of my vocal cords.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I deserved a lot worse.”

“Ty… how can you say that?”

I stare at her across the blanket, our faces just inches apart. Being this close to her lying down in the forest is much different than being this close to her standing up in my workshop or in my kitchen. Resting in the same space, our bodies under the same blanket, spins an entirely new intimacy level between us.

“Because it’s true.”

Her eyes are wet with the start of tears, and the heavy feeling in my chest returns. I don’t want to talk about my past right now, or see her upset. All I want is to lie in my favorite spot with her, beneath her magic blanket, and for her to keep touching me and looking at me without pulling away.

“You don’t deserve anything bad.”