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“And here I am, still fucking waiting for you,” I mutter with a laugh before I slam my mouth into his, groaning with relief the second our lips touch. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath since the last time I watched him drive away, and I can finally breathe again.
“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Hero.” That’s always his answer when I bring up other people. I’m not under any illusions that this thing we have is exclusive, aside from the tattoo part. I will fully flip my shit if I see someone else’s ink on him. But any time I mention anyone else to him, he says that same damn thing. “Don’t be an idiot.”
It won’t be a breakup at all, because this has never been anything more than a patchwork of moments tattooed onto the last four years of my life.
A few changes of clothes, my notebook, and my guitar are all it really takes to keep me happy. Well, that and a stupidly hot tattoo artist.
Does he mean too long since he’s had my hands on him, or too long since anyone has touched him? Another thing I’ve been dying to come right out and ask him but can’t. I’m not going to be the dumbass who lost a rockstar because I got too clingy and hopelessly monogamous. Just because I haven’t so much as looked at anyone else in four years doesn’t mean Onyx hasn’t.
“Tell them I’m obsessed with you and as soon as they let me off the tour bus, I got in my car and drove straight here to break into your house, and now I’m refusing to leave,”
“Alright, then tell them I’m here to convince you to marry me and let me stay in Fall Crosse forever, drinking coffee and writing wonderfully peaceful songs about lazy mornings and delicious frittatas.”
That we’ve been falling in love one fleeting encounter at a time for years and that I’m here because the life I thought I wanted feels empty? That the only time I’m happy is when we’re together?
“Hey, don’t blame Milo. Not knowing how to be cool in public is really down to poor parenting,” Jag says wisely.
“Would it be less complicated if you just called me your boyfriend while I’m here?”
“You know, I’ve known you for four years, but I feel like I hardly know anything about you. I want to change that while you’re here. I…” He swallows hard. “I think I’m okay if it hurts when you leave.”
As long as he keeps snapping his fingers, I’ll keep running to him. Pathetic? Maybe. I don’t think I give a shit though, not if it means getting to taste him and touch him and be the sole focus of his attention for a few hours at a time.
