Jason stirs beside me, his face scrunching up in a scowl before his eyes even open. Sunlight streams through the massive windows, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the bruises shadowing his skin from whatever hell he put himself through last night. His hair is a mess, dark strands falling over his forehead, and there’s a crease from my pillow pressed into his cheek.

This was supposed to be casual—no strings, no expectations. And yet, this is the third time this week he’s ended up in my bed, too exhausted or too hungover to go anywhere else.

I watch as his eyes finally adjust, sharp blue cutting through the haze of sleep, locking onto me. His gaze flicks downward, landing on the makeup palette in my hands, then drags back up to my face. One brow lifts, silent but undeniably judgmental.

Smiling, I tilt my head, tapping a finger against the lid of the palette.

“Can I color your tattoos?”