“If it were up to me,” he says softly against my ear, “I wouldn’t have chosen this life for you.” His inked fingers trace the dove tattoo on my thigh, pausing over the crescent-shaped scars scattered throughout. Because I can already hear the clock counting down on our time together, and because I’m feeling sentimental and fragile, I play along. “What life would you have chosen for me?” His breath dances across the sensitive skin right below where my ear meets my neck. “A quiet one,” he says. “I’d build you a nice house and plant you as many marigolds as you wanted. I’d keep you safe.”
