"Hmm."
"What's hmm?"
"It's hmm."
"It's something."
The kettle steams. He pours water into the mug with those strong, steady hands of his. It's not just that I think about what his hands would feel like on my body.
I do.
But I also watch him work.
It's a thing of beauty, watching Brendon draw on paper or on someone's skin. Okay, everything he does is a thing of beauty. But when he's working on a tattoo, he gets this look in his eyes.
Like there's nothing else in the world.
Like he's exactly where he belongs.
I want that. To know what I'm supposed to do, where I'm supposed to be.
There are only two times I feel at home: when I'm reading and when I'm writing.
But neither of those are a career.
I can't write Hunger Games fan fiction full time.
I'm too embarrassed to show anyone but Grandma said fan fiction.
"I'm not gonna lecture you about drinking too much." He crosses the room, sets my cup on the table in front of me. His eyes lock with mine. "I'm just glad you feel like shit."
"You're cruel."
"You're just figuring that out?"
My smile spreads over my lips as I shake my head. "Why are you up this early?"
"I'll give you one guess."
"A tattoo."
He nods.
"Doesn't the shop open at ten?"
"Yeah. This guy is an old friend."
"You mean an interesting tattoo."
He smirks as he scoops eggs onto plates. Two plates. "You know me too well."
"Can I see?" I love seeing his work, but he's secretive about his faded black sketchbook. When he isn't reading or watching TV, he's drawing tattoos in that book.
"If you eat."
My shoulders tense.
Who the hell does he think he is telling me when I should eat?