“Well, you are my fiancé. Maybe I should ask another guy instead,” she muses, the tips of her fingers now twirling over my skin as though dancing across the scar tissue. Jealousy hits me hard and fast. I have no right to it. I can’t rationalize it. All I know is I don’t want her sharing moments like this—quiet and unfiltered, safe and trusting—with some other jackass. I want to be the only jackass who gets this version of her.
