He was leaning against my doorframe like he paid rent.
Like he belonged.
One arm crossed over his chest, the other dangling at his side, fingers drumming lazily against his thigh. His black shirt was rolled at the sleeves, the top few buttons undone, revealing just enough of that cursed tattoo that always made my pulse flutter against my will. The one I told myself I didn’t care about. The one I’d traced once. With my eyes. With my mouth.
Mistakes.
“What are you wearing?”
His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
I dabbed a bit of highlighter on my collarbone, ignoring the sting in my gut. “A dress, Dario. The usual item of clothing people wear when they’re not sulking in corners.”
He didn’t take the bait. Not like he used to. Which irritated me more than I’d admit.
“That’s not just a dress,
