Chapter Ten
Ava
Reece and I are sprawled on his couch after dinner, my feet in his lap, his hands absently massaging my arches. We’ve been here for two hours, talking about everything and nothing. The Lena drama from earlier feels like days ago. instead of minutes.
“Tell me about the design.”
“What design?” I ask, though I know exactly what he means.
“The one you’re going to tattoo on me.”
“I never agreed to tattoo you.”
“You will.” He presses his thumb into my heel, and I bite back a moan. “You’ve been thinking about it. I can tell.”
“Cocky.”
“Observant.” He shifts my feet, turning to face me fully. “Come on. You’ve had weeks to consider it. What would you give me?”
I have been thinking about it, probably more than I should. Late at night when I can’t sleep, I sketch designs in my head. Ideas that would suit him. Symbols with meaning he’d understand.
“Why does it matter?” I ask. “You could go to any artist in the city. Better artists. More experienced.”
“I don’t want any artist, I want you.”
The simplicity of his statement does something to my chest. He’s not asking because I’m convenient or available. He’s asking because it matters. Because having my art on his body means something.
“I’d have to think about placement,” I say slowly. “Something visible enough you’d see it, but not so obvious it becomes a media circus.”
His eyes light up. “So, you’re considering it.”
“I’m entertaining the possibility. There is a difference.”
“I’ll take it.” He pulls my feet back into his lap, resuming the massage. “Where would you put it?”
“Ribs, maybe. Inside your forearm. Somewhere personal.” I watch his face. “What do you want it to mean?”
“That’s your call. You’re the artist.”
“But it’s your body. Your story.”
He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “Control,” he says finally.
“And letting go of it. Baseball’s all about control.
Every pitch, every movement, calculated and precise.
But off the field?” He shakes his head. “I’ve spent years controlling my image, my reputation, who I’m seen with, it’s exhausting. ”
“And you want a tattoo about releasing control?”
“I want a tattoo about choosing when to release it. Knowing the difference between control and surrender.” His eyes meet mine. “You make me want to surrender. To stop performing and calculating every move.”
My breath catches. This is the most honest he’s been, and the vulnerability in his voice cracks something open inside me.
“Reece…”
“I know it’s a lot, but you asked.” He reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together. “Design whatever you think fits. I trust you.”
The weight of those words settles over me. Trust. He’s handing me control over something permanent, something he’ll carry forever. The responsibility should terrify me.
Instead, it feels right.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “No promises, but I’ll sketch some ideas.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“And if I decide I can’t do it?”
“Then I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll understand.” He tugs me closer until I’m practically in his lap. “But I think you will because you want to. I can see it.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“About you? Always.”
He kisses me then, slow and deep, and I lose myself in it. In him.
The control he’s always talking about? I’m surrendering all of it right now, and I can’t bring myself to care.
It is one-thirty in the morning when I finally give in and text Reece.
I’ve been pacing my apartment, phone in hand, deleting and rewriting the same message over and over. This is reckless, impulsive, and everything I’ve spent weeks trying to avoid.
But I’m tired of being careful. Tired of overthinking. Tired of pretending three weeks with Reece feels casual when it feels anything but.
Me: Come over.
The response is immediate.
Reece: Now?
Me: Yes.
Reece: Is this a booty call?
I can practically hear the smugness through the screen.
Me: Maybe.
Reece: I’ll be there in 10.
He makes it in eight.
When I buzz him in and open my door, he’s slightly breathless, hair sticking up in fifteen directions. He’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt inside out, and he looks absolutely perfect.
“You didn’t brush your hair,” I observe.
“You said come over. I came over.” He steps inside, eyes roaming my apartment. “This is nice.”
“It’s small.”
“It’s you.” He’s already moving through the space, taking in the framed tattoo designs on the walls, the sketches scattered across my coffee table, the organized chaos of my bookshelf. “How long have you lived here?”
“Two years. Bought it right after I opened the studio.” I close the door, suddenly nervous. Having him here feels more intimate than his apartment. This is my space. My sanctuary. “Well, the bank owns most of it. But legally, some of it’s mine.”
He grins. “The American dream.”
“Something close to it.” I lead him farther in, gesturing around. “One bedroom. One bathroom. Kitchen so small I can barely turn around in it. But it’s new construction, and I only had to walk up one flight of stairs from the ground floor. Perfect for someone who hates exercise.”
“From a security perspective, it’s a nightmare.”
I blink. “What?”
“The ground floor has easy access, your windows face the street.” He’s moved to my living room window, peering out. “Anyone could see in. Anyone could…”
“Reece.” I touch his arm. “I’m fine. This is a safe neighborhood.”
“Still…” He turns, and there’s genuine concern in his eyes. “You should get better locks. Maybe a security system.”
“Are you seriously critiquing my apartment security right now?”
“I’m seriously worrying about you living somewhere this accessible.”
The protectiveness in his voice does something to me. He’s not trying to control or mansplain. He’s genuinely concerned, and it’s unexpectedly sweet.
“I’ve lived here two years without incident,” I say gently. “But I’ll think about better locks if it makes you feel better.”
“It would.”
“Noted.” I step closer, sliding my hands up his chest. “Now, can we stop talking about security systems?”
His eyes darken. “What did you have in mind?”
“I invited you over at one-thirty. What do you think I had in mind?”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Come on, I want to hear you admit you wanted me here.”
Heat floods my face. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re deflecting.” His hands find my hips, pulling me flush against him. “Tell me why I’m here, Ava.”
The challenge in his voice makes my pulse spike. He wants me to own this, claim it, no hiding behind maybes or casual arrangements.
“I wanted to see you,” I admit quietly. “I was lying in bed thinking about you, I couldn’t stop, and I decided waiting until tomorrow was stupid.”
“Keep going.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Absolutely.” His smile is pure arrogance. “But I also drove here at borderline illegal speeds because you texted. So, humor me.”
I take a breath. “I wanted you here because when I’m with you, everything feels… easier. Lighter. And tonight, after dinner and Lena’s post and the tattoo conversation, I realized I’m tired of pretending this is casual when it stopped being casual weeks ago.”
His expression softens. “Ava…”
“And I wanted to show you my apartment. My space. The place where I’m most myself.” I meet his eyes. “And maybe, if you were interested, I wanted to show you my bedroom.”
“Interested?” His voice drops an octave. “I’ve been thinking about your bedroom since the first time you shut me down in your studio.”
“That’s very presumptuous.”
“That’s very honest.”
He kisses me, and it’s different from every other kiss we’ve shared. More intense. More certain. His hands slide under my shirt, fingers splaying across my lower back, and I arch into him.
“Bedroom,” I breathe out against his mouth.
“Lead the way.”
I take his hand, pulling him down the short hallway. My heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it.
This is happening.
We’re doing this.
Crossing a line we can’t uncross.
I push open my bedroom door, and Reece’s sharp intake of breath makes me smile.
“It’s very you,” he says.
The walls are covered in art. My designs, pieces from other artists I admire, and photographs I’ve taken.
My bed is unmade because I was lying in it twenty minutes ago, deliberating whether to text him.
There are books stacked on my nightstand, half-finished sketches on my desk, and string lights casting everything in warm, soft light.
“It’s messy,” I say.
“It’s perfect.” He pulls me close, hands framing my face. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m really not.”
“To me, you are.”
Then he’s kissing me again, walking me backward toward the bed. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I fall, pulling him down with me. He catches himself on his forearms, hovering over me, eyes dark and intense.
“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says.
“Don’t stop.”
“You sure?”
“Reece.” I pull him down. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He does. God, he does. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, down my neck, finding spots I didn’t know were sensitive. My hands slide under his shirt, mapping the muscles on his back, and he groans against my skin.
“Off,” I demand, tugging at his shirt.
He sits back long enough to pull it over his head, and I take a moment to appreciate the view. He’s all lean muscle and smooth skin, and there’s a scar on his shoulder from surgery years ago. I trace it with my finger.
“Torn rotator cuff,” he explains. “Sophomore year of college.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
I lean up, pressing a kiss to the scar.
He shudders, hands tightening on my hips. “You’re killing me,” he mutters.
“Good.”
He pushes me back down, and his hands find the hem of my shirt. He pauses, eyes meeting mine, asking permission without words. I nod, and he pulls it off slowly, reverently, as though he is unwrapping something precious.
“Beautiful,” he breathes out.
“You’re biased.”
“I’m accurate.”