I’m watching his retreating form when a big hand covered in a rose tattoo cups my chin. Not fighting his gentle urging, I tilt my head back to look at him. “It wasn’t safe to have an old phone.” I open my mouth to argue but his fingers tighten just the smallest bit on my chin, silencing me. “How many times did you wake up to a dead battery?” This time I don’t need help staying quiet, because the answer is many. I’ve woken up many times to a dead phone. And even though it’s never been an issue, it could’ve been. “It wasn’t safe,” He repeats, then leans closer, “I want to keep you safe.” My
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