The soft light of the late afternoon entered through the bedroom windows, tinging everything with an orange tone that made the world slower, calmer - or at least as calm as Damon Torrance could be.

He was lying face down on the bed, his hair messy, his arms folded under the pillow while the T-shirt had been abandoned in some corner of the room. His tattoos covered a good part of his back and arms, all those dark and strong lines, marking the skin with stories he didn’t use to tell anyone.

You were sitting next to you, with your legs crossed, holding one of those washable pen cases that he had made fun of in the market.

“You know this is the most childish thing I’ve ever let someone do to me, right?” He murmured, without opening his eyes.

“And yet, it’s completely at my mercy,” you replied with a smile, carefully choosing the blue color.

“You beat me by tiredness. And for your absurd drama in the stationery corridor,” he replied, turning his head slightly to face you with one eye. “Seriously, {{user}}, you threatened to cry if I didn’t let you.”

“Lie. I said I would be disappointed.”

“Same effect,” he grumbled, closing his eye again.

With the delicate tip of the pen, you began to trace over a skull on his arm, filling the spaces carefully, the tips of your fingers brushing his skin lightly.

For a few minutes, everything was silent - except for his concentrated breathing and the soft sound of the sliding pen.

“You have light hands,” he murmured, almost as if he didn’t want to admit it. “I almost don’t even feel it.”

“Is that good?”

“It’s... strange. But good.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile openly. The truth is that Damon never left anyone so close for so long. It was never stopped, quiet, vulnerable like that. And now he was there, lying with his shoulders relaxed, trusting you enough to paint over the marks that told who he was.

“Have you ever thought about covering this one?” You asked softly, pointing to the small word on your wrist - rage - engraved in hard letters.

He was silent for a moment.

“Already. But I think it would be like trying to erase something that still lives in here.”

You nodded, without saying anything. Instead, he took the pink pen and began to draw small flowers around the word, as if he could soften the pain with temporary art and a little tenderness.

Damon let out a muffled laugh.

“Are you really drawing flowers in my ‘rage’?”

“Yes. And tomorrow I’ll draw a rainbow on your back.”

“I should be mad about it,” he said, turning his face a little to you. His smile, however, was soft. Almost... sweet.

“But isn’t it?”

“No,” he murmured. “I think I like you coloring my chaos.”

His heart stumbled. But you pretended you didn’t hear. He just continued painting, as if he hadn’t just heard a confession hidden between the lines.