“Um,” I called after him, nearly bumping into one of his friends in the hallway as they’d been making their way toward the boys’ locker room. “Charles?”
Charles turned, pursing his lips as I stood before him, panting, my eyes shifting toward his left shoulder. I had to see it again but he’d thrown a towel over his shoulders, using it to shake out his hair.
“What is it?” he asked, confused.
“Um, your . . . tattoo.” It came out lamely and anxiously, I tucked my hair behind my ear.
He scrunched his brows. “What?”
“What does it mean?” I wondered, staring up at him nervously. He was really close, torso bare, water dripping from his hair—my eyes flickered to a droplet that slipped over his cheek, down his throat, to his chest—
“I don’t want any problems with you
