I thought our relationship was going to get stronger when Ate got married, but it didn’t. If anything, it became more strained. And I was left giving half-assed apologies because Ate tells me to always be the bigger person. And I try, I swear I try. But no matter how much I do, it’s never enough.

  Shame morphs into my skin and becomes my new mask.

  I’ve been pacing outside for the past hour. My inner demons are shaking hands instead of fighting and that’s what makes me nervous.

  My dumbhead thought I’d be okay surviving off of one colouring book this summer.

  In my defence, it had over two hundred pages.

  I’m currently losing my mind.

  Everyone’s out on a date.

  Except me.

  On top of that, Rosa knows now. Then we had a fight. She’s going to tell Ate, I know she is. She never keeps anything to herself. Then Ate is going to be disappointed in me and with her being pregnant, she’ll feel utterly sad and unwell, and it’ll all be because of me. More than that, she’ll need her space to think, and I don’t want to give her space.

  See, this is why I need my colouring books.

  A small, fallen tree branch catches my attention.

  Screw it. It’s my only option.

  I crouch down and start rubbing the end of the stick, using the end of the stick on grass like it’s a colouring pencil. I rub and rub until the green prickles pull out from their places and scatter around the ground. Instead of dry soil, wet mud emerges and flings onto me, but I give it no attention. I’m immersed in scraping the soil until there’s nothing but a small, deep hole.

  It's not enough.

  In frustration, I drop the stick and stand.

  A cold chill traverses through the small yard. Beyond me is a view of iridescent blue light shining down upon the lakes.

  “Nova.”

  The deep rumble of his voice causes me to stumble over my feet and just as I’m about to greet the ground, his large hand warps around my waist and keeps me upright.

  Warmth spreads through my abdomen and across my cheeks.

  “Are you okay?” His breath fans against my ear.

  Withholding my quivering breaths, I pull away from him. My hands automatically rub up and down my arms.

  “Why aren’t you on your date?”

  Dean clenches his jaw. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Oh.” That makes sense. “What about Katarina?”

  That’s when I notice that Dean’s hair is wet like he ran out of the shower and somehow teleported down here the instant he heard me outside. My skin fizzles with the sudden urge to touch him.

  “Irene said she’ll take care of it.”

  The moon brightens up a notch, yet it’s Dean’s green eyes that illuminate the dark night.

  “You should rest, Dean.” I swallow hard.

  He notices the abandoned stick near my foot and the remaining evidence of dirt that now stains my arm.

  Internally, I’m smacking my forehead.

  “I was gardening,” I say quickly when his gaze bore into the small muddy hole.

  Gardening what?

  My dignity.

  “Your dignity?”

  I freeze, shutting my eyes in vain. “I said that out loud.”

  “You did,” he confirms with a small nod that my brain signals to me as judgment.

  Anger flushes through my system. “Why does it matter whether I plant my dignity or a damn body, Mr. Vuk?”

  Embarrassment clacks against my teeth before turning into an involuntary quiver. “I’m sorry,” A puff of air escapes my lips. “I’m a little anxious and I’m taking it on you.”

  Dean doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t stop staring. He reads me carefully, trying to figure out whether my commas are where they’re supposed to be or if I’m a fragmented sentence.

  When he says, “Wait here” in that deep voice of his, I bet he’s figured out I’m a bunch of gibberish not worth decoding.

  Cool air flushes through my system, but it doesn’t make the heat of his presence disappear.

  When Dean reappears, he’s holding a large bag.

  “That’s mine,” I accuse with a pointed finger.

  It has my colouring markers in them.

  “I know,” he says without stopping.

  “What are you⁠—”

  He grabs my wrist.

  “Hello?”

  He leads me (more like drags me) through the no entry gates. Past it, there’s a wooden staircase taking us down to a smaller, yet beautiful lake. The sound of water rushing through the valley between the two mountains is louder here, but it doesn’t mesh loudly. It runs smooth, meeting each other with softness.

  There’s a steep step at the bottom before grass—the size of an average Mississauga backyard—covers the ground right before meeting the water. There’s no dam-like elevation that can stop the water from drowning us, that’s why they covered this area up.

  Dean lets go of my wrist and takes the step. Just as I’m about to follow, he slips my bag over his neck and curls an arm around my waist, easily lifting me off my feet.

  There’s a slight hitch in my chest when I curve my hand around the back of his throat.

  Hard and warm. I don’t want to let go.

  I’m pressed to the side of his body and can feel the deep, sharp inhale he takes. Adam's apple bobs twice before he turns to look at me.

  Up close, I can see the light brown mole that is hidden by his left brow.

  Black pupils swallow up the heightened greens and I’m left mesmerized by them. He’s an anomaly to me and has been since the minute I walked into Vuk Securities. I’m taken back to the moment I knocked on his door with the soiled pot in my hand. He opened the door and stared down at me with indifference, but he had an expression resting in those solid greens that I couldn’t back away from.

  Suffice to say that that still hasn’t changed.

  I look away.

  Dean’s chest expands.

  Every neuron in my body lights up as it brushes up against his while gently being lowered to the ground.

  Not a moment later, I walk past him towards the water. He’s too much for me.

  One minute he acts kind and the next he acts the way he did at the anniversary party.

  Feet crunch behind me, but I don’t look back.

  I’m scared that if I do, whatever I’m feeling right now will grow bigger and mold against my ribcage.

  “Why did you bring me here, Dean?”

  My question is met with utter silence.

  Sucking in my cheeks, I turn around and let out an involuntary gasp.

  Gone is his shirt.

  Instead, black swirls of ink cover the length of his left arm. Even though I should be telling him to put his shirt back on, I can’t. I’m greedy. I’ve been wanting to see his tattoos since I caught a glimpse of them when he grabbed the soiled pot from me the first day we met.

  I’ve known about the vines and leaves branding over his knuckles, but what I didn’t know was they extend up towards his shoulders and curl around the back of his neck. Each vine intertwines with each other. One of the vines has thorns, the other has four different flowers.

  Orange Blossom.

  Violet.

  Nerium.

  I take a step towards him to get a better look, but I’m distracted by the rest of his tattoos.

  In the empty space between the leafy vines, there’s more. A dragon rests on one of the thorns, blowing out fire towards a flower that’s growing instead of burning it into ashes.

  Another step.

  On another blank space has a… snowflake? No, that can’t be it. It doesn’t have the softness of a snowflake. There’s a round circle protruding sharp icicles in the middle.

  As my eyes travel upwards, I notice that each empty space has something.

  On the bicep, there’s a pocket watch where the chain connects to the last flower—a sharp inhale—an… anemone.

  “Sit down, Nova.”

  I’m sat.

  Even while sitting criss-crossed next to him, he’s bigger than me—broader, and stronger. All it would take is for him to wrap his hand around my neck and slightly squeeze to take the life out of me.

  Excitement shrivels through me. You weirdo, this is why you need a therapist.

  “Why’d you bring me here, Dean?”

  He stares at me and nothing on his face gives me an answer. “Are you disappointed?”

  “Yes.” No.

  “Your ogling says otherwise.”

  “If you’re done harassing me,” I blush while smacking my hands against my thighs. “Then I will be leaving now.”

  As I move to stand up, he holds me down by the wrist.

  The intensity in his gaze ties knots in my stomach, keeping me grounded.

  Satisfaction echoes through his features when he realizes I won’t leave. Letting go of me, he unzips the bag.

  Then looks at me like I know what the gibberish is going on.

  “Use me,” he extends his arm as it rests over my knee.

  There’s that word again.

  Brows furrowing, “Use you as what exactly?”

  “Your colouring book.”

  I let out a laugh, he’s not actually serio⁠—

  Oh, no, no, no.

  Dearest most needed organ of mine, please be patient with me. I promise as soon as I’m in the safety of my room I’ll search up how to cure an expired, molded heart that’s currently resurrecting itself like an almost-dead plant.

  Is this what revival feels like because I’m not sure I like it.

  “You can’t be serious, Dean.”

  He’s absolutely serious.

  Kill me now.

  “I’ll ruin your tattoos.”

  “They’re washable markers.”

  “I don’t colour within the lines.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “You’re ticklish.”

  Amusement flashes in those greens. “I’m not.”

  Out of options, I ask, “Why?” but I’m already reaching for a dark pink marker.

  “You said you were feeling anxious, and you completed the pages in your colouring book,” he says, like it’s the only possible answer he can give me. Dean brands his palm over my thigh, the warmth travelling from him to me to all over my body.

  Mushy.

  Gooey.

  Annoyed, that he’s been watching me carefully enough to know exactly what I need.

  “Fine,” I uncap the marker and point the cap end of it at him. “But you can’t hate me after.”

  Gruffly, he responds, “Never.”

  Ignoring the fluttering sensation occurring in the pit of my stomach, I do what I’ve always wanted to do.

  I start colouring Dean Vuk’s colourless tattoos.

  Usually when I colour, I think about what colours belong where and which ones pair well together. But right now—marking his skin with pink—I’m not thinking.

  His muscles flex and unflex while the thick tip presses against one of the leaves.

  I try my best not to touch him in any way. Key word is try, but if my pinky doesn’t brush against him, then my thumb does. His warmth is a secret keyholder to my heart.

  We quickly bask in silence. Except I’m not sure you can call this silence. It’s like I’m in my room with nature sounds playing in the background.

  The ground is cool beneath me and all I can hear is the sound of Dean’s steady breathing and water splashing against each other in soft tones. It’s euphoric. In some odd way, this is my heaven.

  “Earlier, you said you were anxious.” Dean says the word like he thought about it multiple times before letting it out. “Is it because you were alone?”

  My fingers falter and push the pink outside of the line. Taking a deep breath, I trade the pink marker for a green one. “Partly,” nobody likes being alone. “But it’s something else.”

  “What is it?”

  I stop colouring and look at Dean. Unimpressed. “This isn’t your way of getting closer to me, is it?”

  “If it is?” He solemnly asks.

  I cap the marker and stare at him. You shut me out the last time I asked questions.

  Then ask me the right ones, he stares back.

  “Okay,” I reply while exchanging the green for a blue. “But this only works if you tell me a bit about yourself too.”

  His brows pull together like he’s not sure what that means.

  Has no one tried getting to know Dean Vuk before?

  “This is me using you.” I clarify. “You ask me a question then I get to ask you a question, deal?”

  Dean looks out towards the water.

  I tilt my head to get in his way, forcing him to look at me.

  “Fine,” he grumbles. “What didn’t you⁠—”

  “I get to ask you a question first.”

  “You just did,” he says.

  Is that… a smile?

  Or well, an almost smile. But whatever, it’s the same to me.

  “Touché,” I shake my head in disbelief even though he’s right. “Go on, then.”

  Dean doesn’t remove his hand from my thigh. Not that it’s a problem—it isn’t—I’m actually finding a lot of comfort in it right now.

  “What’s bothering you?”

  Straight to the point, I see.

  To get better balance, I abandon the no-touch rule.

  He’s big. Everywhere. His muscles. Him.

  How does he get through average human doors?

  “I had a fight with my sister.” I start to say, swallowing the unusual lump in my throat. “Whenever I have a fight with her or my other sister, I get anxious. They’re the type to like space after an argument and I’m… not. It makes me feel like I’m a burden to them. That’s all.”

  Dean stills. “You’re not a problem, Nova.”

  I stop colouring to meet his gaze and see if it matches his tone. Spoiler alert, it does.

  “Everyone says that.”

  “It’s true,” he grunts. “If someone doesn’t try to understand you even after you put in the effort, it’s because they don’t live up to what you deserve.”

  That’s more words than I’ve ever heard him say.

  Biting back a soft smile, “What is it that you think I deserve, Dean?”

  Who would have thought Dean and I would be having a deep conversation like this in Switzerland?

  As grumpy as he might show himself to be, there’s more to him. Layers and layers. Not like an onion, but more like a potato. He’s not complicated, merely annoying to peel if you don’t own a peeler.

  I fully expect him to remain silent or reply with another signature grunt, but he doesn’t.

  “You deserve someone who can see you for who you really are rather than what you show everyone else.”

  The marker slips from my fingers, creating an ugly line down his tattoos.

  It doesn’t feel like we’re talking about my sisters anymore.

  Dean picks it up and caps the marker before putting it back in my hand. “Why do you dim the same light that shines bright on others when it comes to shining it on yourself?”

  I pull at the sleeves of my robe, unable to conjure up a single thought. This is weird. Weirder than weird. To be noticed is one thing, but to be seen—truly seen, is another.

  “Pass,” I choke out. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “I want to,” he responds quickly.

  Oh, look at that? Grass. I like grass. I think grass is great and useful and lovely and has many uses like growing things and⁠—

  “What did I do to make you upset with me?”

  My eyes move on their own accord and when we meet each other, he holds me there. Funny thing, I don’t want to look away. “I’m not upset with you.”

  He gives me a look.

  Screw it. I can tell him now.

  I’m not gaining much from holding it in, plus he’s not that kind of guy. I hope.

  “At the anniversary party,” A shaky exhale. “I heard you—uh—talk to Azar about me. Messing things up. Blah, blah. Whatever.”

  His lips press in a white line. “Did you listen to our whole conversation?”

  I shake my head. “I’m good at self-sabotage, but I’m not a masochist.”

  Your nether regions would disagree.

  Dean chuckles deeply without humour.

  My insides buzz. Intoxicating.

  “If you’d stuck around to eavesdrop a little longer,” he does an extremely attractive thing.

  Dean removes his hand from my thigh and leans back on the palms of both. Slightly tilting his head back, he looks at me through lowered lashes. “You’d know that the reason why I didn’t want you at the anniversary party wasn’t because I hate you. But because I really, really like you.”

  My heart stops.

  Dean shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I should keep my distance from you, should really learn how to leave you the fuck alone but,” his nostrils flare. “I don’t want to.” His teeth scrape against his bottom lip. “When I’m with you, I can breathe. And what sane person would willingly sacrifice their air?”

  Suffocation confiscates my oxygen and I’m left staring at Dean in a new way. His sharp features as more than just humanistic expressions and his lips as something more than mere lips.

  Feeling overwhelmed, I stand to walk towards the water.

  He’s too much, too quickly, all at once.

  “Sometimes when you see someone outside of how you’re used to seeing them, feelings happen.” I turn to see him already looking at me. He’s where I left him. “But they’re temporary.”

  Dammit, why does he look that good right now? It’s making it hard to be rational.

  “And you deserve someone better than me, Dean.”

  Someone that won’t use you. Someone who is grown up.

  Someone mature enough to see and understand him.

  His eyes narrow into slits.

  He straightens himself with agile precision until he’s standing. Shirt in hand.

  Eyes glimmering under the dark sky.

  Something passes through them in a daze like a shooting star piercing through the sky.

  A passing moment.

  Too fast.

  I blink rapidly, looking around to see if there’s someone else that he’s apparently mad at right now because it sure as hell shouldn’t be me.

  “Someone better?” He stalks forward.

 

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