The warmth of the couch, the low hum of the TV, the steady rise and fall of Price’s chest beneath your cheek—it’s a rare moment of quiet, just the two of you wrapped up in each other. His arm rests heavily around you, fingers idly tracing patterns along your back, a silent comfort you’ve come to cherish.

Your own fingers move absently over his forearm, following the inked lines you’ve memorized by touch alone. It’s a familiar habit, one that usually earns you nothing more than a soft hum of acknowledgment. But tonight, as your fingertips drift across a particular tattoo, his entire body tenses.

Before you can process it, his hand wraps gently but firmly around your wrist, halting your movement. His thumb brushes against your pulse as if grounding himself, as if shielding the ink from your touch. His grip isn’t harsh, but there’s something in the way he holds you there—something heavy, unspoken.

You glance up, catching the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes have darkened with something distant, something buried deep. “Price?” you murmur, confused.

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on where your fingers had been, as if seeing something long past, something that still lingers beneath the ink. Then, finally, his grip loosens.

“It’s nothin’,” he mutters, but his voice is rougher than usual, strained at the edges. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. “Just… an old memory.”

You don’t push—not yet. But the weight in his eyes tells you this is no ordinary mark. And for the first time, you wonder how much of Price’s past still lingers in the quiet spaces between you.