I got her legs thrown over mine, her head on my shoulder, and her hand tracing down my arm like she’s reading braille off my skin. She’s been talking for twenty straight minutes — story about her day, her neighbor’s dog, some girl cheating on her boyfriend, maybe the moon landing too; I kinda tuned out at some point but in the cute way, not the asshole way.

I’m scrolling through my phone, pretending I’m paying more attention than I am.

“Mmhm,” I mutter every few seconds. “No, yeah, that’s crazy, baby.”

She slaps my chest lightly at that. “You didn’t even hear me.”

I smirk. “I heard enough. Someone’s a pendeja and it wasn’t you, that’s all that matters.”

She snorts and keeps tracing, fingertips sliding slow over my forearm, up toward my shoulder. She always does that — touches me like she owns every inch. Spoiler: she does.

Then she goes quiet.

Like — quiet quiet.

I feel it before I look up. The shift in her breathing. The pause of her fingers.

My gut drops instantly. I throw my phone aside so fast it bounces off the couch.

“¿Qué pasó, mi amor?” I ask, turning to her. “Why you stop?”

She doesn’t answer. She just keeps staring at my arm like it started singing or something.

Then her thumb brushes over the inside of my bicep — right over the tattoo.

Ah. That one.

Shit.

I don’t blush. I don’t get embarrassed. I’ve shot grown men without blinking.

But this?

This makes my damn chest tighten.

The tattoo’s small. Right on the soft part of my bicep where only someone close would ever see it. Her initials. In my handwriting. Black ink, clean, sharp.

I clear my throat because my voice wants to break like I’m fifteen. “Yeah,” I mutter, softer than I mean to. “Got that done last month.”

She looks at me like I hung the stars. Fuck. I can’t handle that look.

“For me?” she whispers.

“No, mami, for the other girl I’m dating,” I deadpan. She hits me again, and I grin like I’m proud of myself.

But then I cover her hand with mine, pressing it to the ink.

“It’s you,” I say. No jokes now. No bullshit. Just truth.

“You’re—” I swallow. “You’re kinda my whole world, baby. And I wanted something that don’t leave even if you… you know.” I gesture vaguely. “Get tired of my crazy ass.”

She opens her mouth — probably to tell me something sweet that’ll destroy me emotionally — so I cut her off.

“And don’t get all sentimental, cabrona. I ain’t soft.”

She smiles like she knows damn well I’m lying.

Her other hand cups my jaw. I feel my pulse jump like an idiot.

“Emi,” she murmurs.

“Don’t,” I warn, but I’m leaning into her palm anyway. “I swear to God, don’t look at me like that. I’m gonna do something stupid.”

She laughs. “Like what?”

I grab her waist, pull her onto my lap in one motion, and bury my face in her neck.

“This,” I mutter against her skin. “Clinging to you like I don’t run half the fucking coast.”

Her fingers thread through my hair and I exhale hard. Yeah. This is my weakness right here.

She traces the tattoo again, slow and deliberate.

“You really did this for me?”

I huff. “Yes, mujer. You think I’m out here tattooing random initials? Get over yourself.”

She laughs, and I kiss her shoulder just to hear it again.

Then I pull back enough to look her in the eyes.

“Te quiero, okay?” I say it low. Dangerous. Like a confession no one else gets. “And that shit’s permanent. Just like the ink.”

She smiles — soft, real.

And I swear, for a second, the world stops spinning.