Farrow Redford Keene
With looks like that, people don’t think you’re soft.
And you’re not.
Ring in lip and nose. Metal thrashed eyebrow. Tattoos wrapped around limbs, draped across back and torso. Motherless, best friendless, but whole and complete nonetheless.
Don’t worry about me, wolf scout, I’m fine.
Fine. Yes, you’re always fine. Wouldn’t bat an eye in a hurricane. But you know that there’s a place beyond fine, beyond OK, enough, mediocre, satisfactory. A place where you can be soft and open.
Such a precious smartass.
You don’t believe in love at first sight. You’re more rational than that. To you, love is choosing a person day after day, night after night. Love is devotion and commitment and safety, a home you return to, sleep beside, exist with. And beneath all your bluster, your cocky smiles and self-assured remarks, you’re so damn happy that he chose you, day after day, night after night.
For him, you can be soft. Only he will understand what pulses beneath your inked skin.