“She was moody yesterday. You saw her hiding behind the castle thing.”
“She’s a fish, Talon.”
“Yeah, and we’re both obsessed with her.” His smirk was smug, and I shoved a pillow against his side.
It was ridiculous, this whole thing—sitting on his couch, joking about a fish—but the comfort of it tugged at something deep inside me. The same place that stirred whenTheWriteGuysent me a late-night message on BookPad, except … not quite the same.
WithTheWriteGuy, it was an easy connection, words flowing in the dark when everything else was quiet. But with Talon—sitting shoulder to shoulder, sharing takeout containers, laughing until my cheeks hurt—there was substance to it. Something tangible. Something real.
Laughter lingered between us, tapering into something quieter. My eyes caught on the ink along the back of his forearm—a wing, feathers etched in careful detail, dark lines sweeping with motion as if they might lift off his skin.
Before I could think better of it, my hand moved, slow and hesitant. My fingertip brushed the curve of one feather, tracing the outline like I might smudge it if I pressed too hard. The air between us shifted, tightening, buzzing with an energy that made my pulse skitter.
I swallowed, eyes flicking to his. “Does it mean something?”
His gaze stayed steady on me, the corner of his mouth tilting, though softer this time. “Yeah. Swimming makes me feel like I’m flying. Like nothing else exists except the water and the finish line ahead of me. The butterfly’s my best event—it’s all about power, motion, wings.” He flexed his arm slightly, the ink seeming to ripple with the movement. “This reminds me of flying. Of chasing what matters. Of not stopping until I reach it.”
I let my fingers linger one second too long before pulling back, the phantom shape of the feathers still warm against my skin. My body ached with a new sensation, half awe, half danger. Because sitting here, watching the way he looked at me, like I’d become part of that dream, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to pull away or lean in closer.
Both our phones buzzed at the same time, breaking the moment. I frowned, reaching for mine on the coffee table. “That’s weird.”
Talon glanced at his phone too. “Group text?”
Nope. A shelter notification. My eyebrows shot up. “You’re on the rescue shelter’s notification list?”
He gave a noncommittal shrug, though his ears tinged red. “I signed up during the ich incident. Can’t be too careful, and I like knowing there’s somewhere that I can get help quickly if I need it for Sapphire.”
I smiled at his response, already opening the alert. And then I saw the photo. A large, very pink potbelly pig in what looked like a velvet pet bed, snout lifted with pure disdain, as though she were too good for this world.
“Oh, my gosh.” My laugh burst out before I could stop it. “Her name’s Princess.”
Talon clicked on the alert as well, and when he saw the picture, he nearly choked on the sip of water he’d just taken. “Is she … wearing pearls?”
I zoomed in. She was. “It says here she needs a home, but only one that meets her …uniqueneeds. ‘Princess enjoys soft bedding, luxury snacks, and long naps in sunbeams.’”
“She’s a pig,” Talon muttered, but his grin betrayed him. “Why does she sound like Roxie?”
I snickered. “Don’t let Roxie hear you say that.”
“Hmm,” he mused as he continued to stare at the photo.
I watched his face and set down my phone. “Oh, no. You’re not thinking about adopting her, are you?”
Talon raised his brows. “Why not? Sapphire needs a sister.”
I slapped his arm this time with the pillow. “She’s not a sister! And you cannot bring a pig into your apartment.”
“Princess Everhart,” he said with mock gravity. “It has a nice ring to it.”
And just like that, the room filled with laughter again, the kind that made me forget about everything else.
Our laughter eventually faded into a quieter hum of comfort, the kind that sank into my bones like a warm blanket.
He let out a sigh. “Okay, so I can’t adopt Princess, but maybe I could help get the word out about her. My social media following is pretty good. Maybe someone out there is looking for a spoiled pink pig.”
His social media following was more thanpretty good. When you looked like him, were making waves in the swimming world, and were half naked in most of your photos thanks to your sport, people tended to flock to that kind of account.
The thought of him posting about a potbellied pig on his page made me smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”