Chapter 6: The Mirror and the Tattoo
The bathroom was small enough that the walls seemed to lean in when she closed the door.
Hannah stood in front of the sink, her hands braced on the cold porcelain, and stared at the mirror. Steam from her shower still clung to the glass, blurring her reflection into something soft and indistinct. She could see the shape of herself — the damp red hair plastered to her shoulders, the thick towel wrapped tight beneath her arms — but the details were lost in fog.
Three days since she'd told Jay everything.
Three days since he'd held her on the bathroom floor and promised they would go at her pace.
Three days since she'd woken up in his arms and felt something shift inside her chest, like a bone resetting after being broken.
She hadn't drunk a single drop since that night. The bottles were still there, hidden in the usual places — under the bed, behind her desk, wedged between the wall and her dresser. She hadn't touched them. Hadn't even looked at them.
But she could feel them watching her.
She reached up and wiped a streak across the mirror, clearing a path through the condensation. Her face emerged from the fog. Pale. Tired. But not hollow. Not like before.
She'd been avoiding mirrors for two years. Avoiding herself. She'd become an expert at getting dressed in the dark, at showering with her eyes closed, at never looking too long at the body that had betrayed her.
The tattoo had been a mistake. That's what she'd told herself after she got it.
She'd been drunk when she walked into the parlor — a shitty little place off campus that didn't ask for ID and didn't ask questions. She'd pointed at a design on the wall, some delicate floral thing with vines that twisted and bloomed, and she'd said, "That one. Across my chest. Down my arms."
The artist had raised an eyebrow. "You sure? That's a big piece."
"I'm sure."
She'd wanted to reclaim something. That's what she'd told herself. She'd wanted to cover the skin he'd touched with something beautiful. Something that was hers.
But when she'd woken up the next morning and seen it in the mirror — the petals stark and vivid, creeping across her collarbone like something alive — she'd panicked. She'd pulled on the biggest hoodie she owned and never taken it off.
The tattoo had become another thing to hide. Another secret. Another piece of herself she couldn't bear to look at.
Now she let the towel fall.
It pooled at her feet, and the cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. She kept her eyes on the mirror and forced herself to look.
The flowers were still there. Of course they were. They traced the curve of her breasts, climbed up her sternum, spilled over her shoulders in a cascade of ink. Roses. Peonies. Something that might have been a lily. The colors had faded slightly over the years, but they were still bright enough to catch the light — deep crimsons and soft pinks and the green of leaves curling around her arms.
She traced the pattern with her fingertips. The petals. The vines. The places where the ink dipped and swirled like it had grown there naturally.
It's beautiful, she thought. And for once, the voice in her head didn't argue.
She thought about Jay. The way he'd looked at her three nights ago, when she'd finally opened the bathroom door and found him sitting on the floor. The way he hadn't flinched when she'd told him about the hotel room, about the hands that held her down, about the word no that meant nothing.
You're not broken, he'd said.
She wanted to believe him.
She wanted to believe that the girl in the mirror was still whole, still worthy, still capable of being loved.
She reached up and wiped another streak across the glass. Her reflection sharpened. The flowers bloomed against her skin like they belonged there.
The door creaked.
"Hannah?"
Jay's voice came from the other room — muffled, uncertain. He'd been in her dorm since last night, sprawled on her bed with a textbook he wasn't reading, making her laugh with terrible puns and pointedly not asking if she was okay.
"I'm in here," she called back.
"You've been in there a while. Everything good?"
She looked at the towel on the floor. Looked at her reflection. Looked at the door that separated her from him.
"Yeah," she said. "I'm good."
She didn't reach for the hoodie on the hook. Didn't grab the robe hanging on the back of the door. Instead, she bent down and picked up the towel, wrapping it loosely around herself — not tight, not armored, just enough.
Then she opened the door.
Jay was standing in the middle of her room, still holding his textbook, his hair sticking up in seven different directions. He turned when he heard the door, and whatever he was about to say died in his throat.
She watched his eyes go wide. Watched them drop to the tattoo she'd never let him see, the flowers that spilled across her chest and down her arms, still glistening faintly from the shower. Watched his mouth open and close like he'd forgotten how to form words.
She waited for the flinch. The pity. The careful, pitying look that said I see you differently now.
It never came.
He just looked at her. Looked at the ink that mapped her skin like a garden. Looked at her bare shoulders and damp hair and the towel that barely covered anything.
"Jesus," he breathed.
She almost laughed. Almost.
"That's not really the reaction I was going for."
He blinked. Shook his head. Set the textbook down on her desk like it might explode if he moved too fast.
"You—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You're—"
"I'm what?"
He crossed the room. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes never left hers, even though she was standing there in a towel, even though the tattoo was right there, blooming like it had been waiting for him to see it.
He stopped a foot away. Close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that she could see the way his throat moved when he swallowed.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said.
Eight words. Simple. Artless. Not poetic, not rehearsed. Just true.
The tears came before she could stop them.
Not sad tears. Not the kind that had soaked her pillow for two years, the kind that tasted like shame and whiskey and loneliness. These were different. These were warm. These were relief.
"Hey," he said, his voice going soft. "Hey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Nothing's wrong. I just..."
She couldn't finish.
He didn't push her. Just stood there, waiting, his hands at his sides like he was afraid to reach for her without permission.
She closed the distance between them.
The towel was the only thing separating them, and she felt it press against his chest as she stepped into him, her arms wrapping around his waist, her face finding the hollow of his neck. He smelled like soap and laundry detergent and something warm underneath, something that was just him.
His arms came up slowly. Carefully. One hand settled on her back, palm flat against the bare skin above the towel. The other cradled the back of her head, his fingers threading gently through her damp hair.
"Are you okay?" he murmured.
"I am now."
He held her like that for a long time. Long enough that the steam from her shower finally dissipated, long enough that the room grew warm from their shared body heat. He didn't push. Didn't let his hands wander. Just held her like she was something precious and fragile and worth protecting.
She pulled back just enough to look at him.
"I wanted you to see," she said. "The tattoo. I've been hiding it for two years. I've been hiding everything."
"I know."
"I don't want to hide anymore."
He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tear tracks on her cheeks.
"Then don't," he said. "I want to see all of you. Every part."
She reached up and covered his hands with hers. "Even the broken parts?"
"Especially those."
She kissed him. Gently. Tenderly. Not with heat, not with hunger, just with a quiet, desperate gratitude that she couldn't put into words. He kissed her back the same way, soft and slow, like they had all the time in the world.
When she finally pulled away, she was smiling.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing. Just... thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me."
He rested his forehead against hers, their breath mingling in the small space between them.
"Always," he said.
The word settled in her chest like something warm. Like something she could keep.
Like something she could keep.
He kissed her again, and this time it wasn't soft. This time it was hunger and relief and two years of wanting, all tangled up in the way his mouth moved against hers. She kissed him back with everything she had, her fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt like she was afraid he might disappear.
He tasted like coffee and the mint gum he was always chewing. She tasted like toothpaste and the faint ghost of the tears she'd just wiped away. Neither of them cared.
She pulled back first, just an inch, her breath coming fast. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but it wasn't fear. It was something else. Something bright and terrifying and alive.
"Jay."
"Yeah?"
She looked at him. Really looked. At the dark hair falling across his forehead, at the crease between his brows that always appeared when he was worried, at the mouth she'd dreamed about kissing for longer than she wanted to admit.
"I don't want to stop."
He went still. His hands, still resting on her back, didn't move.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
She stepped back.
The towel hit the floor.
The air in the room felt different. Cold and electric, charged like the moment before a storm breaks. She stood there, completely bare, and watched his face.
His eyes went wide. His jaw went slack. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching like he didn't know what to do with them.
He didn't reach for her.
She waited.
A beat. Two. Three.
He still didn't move. Just stood there looking at her like she was something sacred, something he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch.
She took his hand.
His palm was rough from years of manual labor, calloused and warm. She pressed it flat against her chest, right in the center, where the tattoo dipped between her breasts into a dark crimson bloom.
She felt his breath catch. Felt his fingers tremble against her skin.
"I love you," she said.
The words came out steady. She'd never said them before, not out loud, not to anyone. She'd thought them a thousand times, a million times, in the dark of her dorm room when she was too drunk to sleep and too tired to cry.
"I want you," she continued. "I trust you."
He just stared at her. His eyes were glossy, his throat working like he was trying to swallow something too big to go down.
"You don't have to say it back," she added quickly. "I just needed you to know."
"You—" His voice cracked. "Hannah, I've loved you since the day we met."
She didn't cry. She was done crying for tonight. Instead, she reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it up over his head.
He helped her, lifting his arms, letting the fabric fall wherever it landed. The room was dim, lit only by the lamp on her desk, but she could see enough. His shoulders. His chest. The muscle that ran down his arms like something carved.
She stepped closer.
Her bare chest pressed against his.
Skin on skin. Warmth on warmth.
The contact sent something through her, a current that started in her chest and spiraled outward. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again, and this time there was nothing gentle about it.
He kissed her back with the same fire. His hands roamed her back, palms flat against her shoulder blades, then sliding down over the curve of her spine. Lower. Slower. Hesitant.
He stopped at her waist.
She broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his mouth.
"It's okay."
He pulled back. Searched her face. Looking for traps, for the signs of panic he'd seen three nights ago on her bathroom floor.
She nodded.
His hands dropped.
His palms landed on her ass, fingers spreading over the bare skin, and pulled her flush against him. She gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound with another kiss.
There was no panic.
There was nothing but heat. Liquid and bright and electric, sparking everywhere his fingers touched. She pressed herself closer, her own hands exploring the planes of his chest, the ridges of his stomach, the muscle that dipped beneath his waistband.
He lifted her.
She wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her the few short steps to her bed. They tumbled onto the mattress together, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter. She ended up on top of him. Where she wanted to be.
She kissed down his jaw, his neck, the hollow of his throat. He groaned under her, low and rough, his hands gripping her hips like an anchor.
She reached for his jeans.
The button popped easily. The zipper slid down. He lifted his hips to help her push them off, and she yanked them down his legs along with his boxers, tossing them somewhere behind her.
And then she looked.
He was hard. Thick and long, the head flushed dark against his stomach. Big enough that she felt her breath catch.
She reached for him.
Her hand wrapped around his cock, fingers straining to circle the width. She stroked him slowly, watching his face, watching the way his eyes fluttered closed and his mouth fell open.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She liked that. Liked knowing she could do that to him. She stroked him faster, twisting her wrist the way she'd learned from the handful of fumbling encounters she'd had before everything went wrong.
She started to shift lower. Started to bend down, her mouth opening, ready to taste him.
His hand caught her shoulder.
"Wait."
She froze. Her stomach dropped.
Had she done something wrong? Misread something?
"Did I—"
"No." He pulled her back up gently. "No, you didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why—"
He cupped her face in both hands. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but there was something else there too. Something tender.
"This is for you," he said.
"What?"
"Tonight." He stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I want you to feel good. I don't want you to do anything you think you have to do."
She blinked. "But I want to—"
"I know. And we will. Later. But right now..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the ink scattered across her chest. "Right now I just want to worship you."
Before she could argue, he rolled them over.
She ended up on her back, her hair splayed across the pillow, staring up at him as he hovered above her. He looked like something out of a dream. Broad shoulders. Dark hair falling into his eyes. The faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
He kissed her forehead first.
Her nose. Her jaw. The curve of her shoulder.
He worked his way down slowly, methodically, like he was memorizing the map of her body with his lips and teeth and tongue. He lingered at the tattoo, tracing the petals with the tip of his tongue, following the vines down her arm.
She shivered under him.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against her skin.
She didn't argue this time.
He kissed lower. Her collarbone. Her sternum. The places where the ink curled around her breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, and she arched off the mattress, a moan escaping her before she could stop it.
He kept going.
Down her stomach. Over her hip bones. He paused at the waistband of nothing, because she wasn't wearing anything, because she was completely naked and completely his.
"Can I?" he asked.
"Yes," she breathed. "Please."
He settled between her legs.
The first touch of his tongue made her gasp. He was slow, careful, exploring her with a patience that made her want to scream. He licked up her slit and flicked her clit, and she bucked against his mouth.
His hands gripped her thighs, holding her still.
He worked her with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles, reading her body like it was his favorite book. He moaned against her, the vibration sending sparks up her spine, and she buried her hands in his hair and held on.
She was close.
So close.
And she wasn't afraid.
For the first time in two years, there was no fear. No memory creeping in. No ghost of hands that weren't his.
There was only this. Only him. Only the pressure building low in her belly, spreading outward, turning her breath into hiccupping gasps.
"I'm—" She couldn't finish.
"I know," he said against her. "Let go."
She did.
The orgasm crashed over her like a wave, pulling her under, holding her down. She shook apart against his mouth, her thighs clamping around his head, a sound escaping her that was half sob and half scream.
He didn't stop.
He worked her through it, slowing down as she came, gentling his touch until she was boneless and trembling beneath him. Then he kissed his way back up, over her stomach, her sternum, the dip between her breasts where the tattoo bloomed.
He hovered over her, his lips slick, his eyes dark.
"Okay?" he asked.
She pulled him down and kissed him.
The taste of herself on his lips should have been strange. It wasn't. It was a part of him now. A part of them.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close.
"More than okay," she whispered.
"More than okay," she whispered.
He kissed her again, slow and deep, and she felt the weight of him settle against her. The heat of his skin. The hard press of his hips between her thighs.
She could feel him. All of him. The length of his cock resting against her stomach, heavy and warm, twitching every time she shifted beneath him.
Her breath caught.
"Jay."
"Yeah?"
She looked up at him. His hair was a mess, dark strands falling across his forehead. His lips were swollen from kissing her, from the other things he'd done with his mouth. His eyes were soft and dark and patient.
She loved him so much it hurt.
"I want to go all the way," she said. "I want to really feel you."
He went still. His thumb, which had been tracing lazy circles on her hip, stopped moving.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Hannah—"
"I'm not fragile." She reached up and touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I'm not going to break."
He searched her eyes. Looking for doubt. Looking for fear. Looking for any reason to stop.
She gave him none.
"I want this," she said. "I want you. And I'm tired of being afraid."
He let out a breath. Slow. Measured.
"Okay," he said. "But if you change your mind—"
"I won't."
"—if you need to stop, you tell me. Any time. Any reason. We stop."
She nodded.
He kissed her forehead. Then he pulled back and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. She watched him reach for his jeans on the floor, dig through the pockets.
She already knew what he was looking for.
"I don't have one," he said, his voice tight. "Shit. I didn't think—"
"I do."
He turned. Looked at her over his shoulder.
"What?"
She sat up. The sheet pooled around her waist, leaving her bare from the waist up. She didn't cover herself. Didn't reach for the hoodie or the towel or anything else.
She stood.
Crossed to her desk.
The drawer on the left side was full of junk—old pens, a broken phone charger, a half-empty pack of gum. But underneath all that, pushed to the back where she'd hidden it months ago, was a small square foil packet.
She pulled it out.
Jay was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. His expression was somewhere between surprise and something softer. Something that looked a lot like wonder.
She held up the condom.
"I've kept it there," she said. "Just in case."
"Just in case?"
She shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I didn't know if I'd ever use it. I just... wanted to have the option. Wanted to feel like it was my choice. If I ever..."
She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
He nodded slowly.
She walked back to him. But she didn't climb onto the bed. Instead, she sank to her knees on the floor between his legs.
He sucked in a breath.
"Hannah—"
"Shh."
She set the condom on the floor beside her. Then she reached for him.
Her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, and she felt him twitch against her palm. He was so hard. So warm. The skin was soft, impossibly soft, stretched tight over something rigid underneath.
She leaned forward.
Her first kiss landed on the tip. A soft press of lips, almost chaste. She tasted salt and skin and something distinctly him.
He made a sound. Low in his throat. Half groan, half whimper.
She liked that sound.
She licked him next. A slow drag of her tongue from base to tip, following the vein that ran along the underside. The taste of him bloomed across her tongue—musk and salt and heat.
She wanted more.
She opened her mouth and took him inside.
He was big. Bigger than she'd expected. Her jaw stretched wide around him, and she only managed to take him halfway before she had to stop. Panic flickered at the edges of her mind—the old fear, the old memory of being forced, of having no control.
She pushed it away.
This was her choice. Her mouth. Her hands. Her body.
She took him deeper.
He cursed. Low and rough, his hips jerking up like he couldn't help himself.
"Fuck, Hannah. Your mouth."
She pulled back and looked up at him. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress like he was holding on for dear life.
"You like that?" she asked.
"I love that. Don't stop."
She didn't.
She took him back into her mouth, working him with her lips and tongue and hand. She was uncoordinated. Messy. She didn't know what she was doing, not really. But she loved the weight of him on her tongue. Loved the way his breath hitched every time she hollowed her cheeks.
Loved the way he looked at her like she was something holy.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Just like that. God, you look so good like this. Your lips wrapped around my cock."
The words sent a jolt through her. Heat pooling low in her belly, spreading outward.
She moaned around him.
"Fuck," he hissed. "That's it. Take it. You're so fucking good at this."
She knew he probably said things like that to other girls. Knew it was just something he did in bed, something he'd learned. But she didn't care. The words lit her up from the inside. Made her feel desired. Powerful.
She pulled back, gasping for air. A string of spit connected her lips to the tip of his cock.
He reached down and brushed her hair out of her face.
"Come here," he said.
She stood. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Then she picked up the condom.
She tore the wrapper open with her teeth. The latex was slick in her fingers, the smell of it sharp and clinical. She knelt back down, rolled it onto him carefully—pinching the tip, smoothing it down the shaft.
He watched her the whole time.
Then she climbed onto the bed.
She lay back against the pillows, her knees falling open, the tattoo on her chest rising and falling with every breath. She was scared. Nervous. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
But she wasn't going to stop.
Jay positioned himself between her legs.
The head of his cock pressed against her, and she felt herself clench up automatically. The old reflex. The old fear.
He felt it too.
"Hey," he said softly. "Look at me."
She looked.
"I've got you. You want to stop, we stop."
"I don't want to stop."
"I know. But I need to hear you say it."
She reached up and pulled him down for a kiss.
"I want this," she said against his mouth. "I want you."
He kissed her again. Gentle. Reassuring.
Then he pushed inside.
She gasped.
He was slow. Careful. He parted her slowly, the stretch almost too much after two years of nothing. Her body resisted, tight and unused, and she bit down on his shoulder to keep from crying out.
He paused. His breath was ragged against her ear.
"You okay?"
"Keep going."
He pushed deeper.
She felt every inch of him. Every ridge and vein. He filled her completely, pressing against something inside her that made her see stars.
"Oh god," she breathed.
"You're so tight." His voice was strained, barely controlled. "Fuck, Hannah. You feel incredible."
He started to move.
Slow at first. Gentle. He pulled out almost all the way and pushed back in, letting her body adjust to him. His hips rolled against hers, and the friction sent sparks up her spine.
"God, you're taking me so well. So fucking perfect."
She wrapped her legs around his waist. Dug her heels into his lower back.
"More," she said. "Harder."
He gave her more.
He fucked her with deep, steady strokes, and she could feel her body giving way around him, loosening, opening, wanting. He was muttering things against her skin—dirty words, sweet words, things that didn't make sense.
"You feel like heaven. Like fucking heaven. Could stay inside you forever."
She believed him.
But it wasn't enough. She wanted more. She wanted to be in control.
She pushed at his chest.
He stopped immediately.
"What—"
"Lie back."
He did.
She followed him up, her legs straddling his hips, his cock still buried inside her. She sat up slowly, letting gravity settle her onto him, and groaned at the way he filled her from this angle.
She started to move.
The first roll of her hips was tentative. The second was bolder. The third made him curse.
"Fuck, yeah. Use me."
She placed her hands on his chest for leverage and rode him.
This was different. This was power. She set the pace. She decided how hard, how fast, how deep. She took what she wanted, and what she wanted was him.
She rode him fast. Hard. She brought her hips down again and again, and he met her every time, his hands gripping her thighs, her ass.
"Jay," she gasped. "Oh fuck, Jay."
He looked up at her with dark eyes.
"Tell me what you need."
"You." She was breathless. "Just you."
She felt it building. A pressure low in her belly. A tightening in her core. She chased it, bouncing on his cock with wild abandon, her breath coming in sharp little pants.
"You close?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then come for me. Come on my cock."
The words tipped her over.
Her orgasm hit like a freight train. Her whole body convulsed, her hips bucking wildly, and her mouth fell open on a moan that seemed to shake the walls. She rode it out on top of him, her nails digging into his chest, her thighs trembling.
He came a second later.
His hands clamped down on her ass, fingers gripping hard, and he thrust up into her one final time, burying himself as deep as he could go. She felt him spasm inside her, felt the heat of him fill the condom, and a second wave crested through her, gentler than the first but just as good.
She collapsed on top of him.
They lay there for a long time. Sweaty. Tangled. Breathless.
His hand came up to stroke her hair.
"You okay?" he asked.
She lifted her head. Looked at him.
His face was soft. Open. Full of something she couldn't quite name.
She smiled.
"I'm perfect."