Tarian
no comparing
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Tarian adjusted the cuffs of his shirt for the fifth time, the crisp white fabric feeling foreign against his skin. He glanced at Honey, who was rummaging through a drawer for something, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to the storm of nerves swirling inside him.
She could tell he was overthinking again.
You look fine,she said softly, glancing at him.
They’re going to hate me,he muttered under his breath, but Honey heard him.
They’re not,she said firmly, pulling out a tie and holding it up to his chest.
Too formal?He nodded absentmindedly, his focus shifting to his reflection in the mirror. His broad shoulders and the faint scars along his knuckles told the story of every fight he’d endured to get here. The tattoos, though—they told another story, one he wasn’t sure her parents would want to hear.
I need to cover some of this ink,he said, breaking the silence. He rolled up his sleeve and traced the edge of a black-and-gray design that stretched over his forearm, a mixture of symbols and script he’d accumulated over years of fighting. Honey paused, her hand now holding a new tie, and looked at him with a slight frown.
Why? I like it,she said, her voice gentle but confused. Tarian sighed and turned to face her fully, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest.
I just don’t want to be compared to anyone you’ve brought home before,he muttered, his voice quieter now. His gaze dropped back to his arm, the ink suddenly feeling like a mark of all the ways he didn’t belong in her world. Honey stepped closer, sliding the tie onto the bed without a second thought. Her hands found his arm, her fingers brushing lightly over the tattoo he seemed so intent on hiding. When he finally looked up, she was smiling—soft, sincere, and so sure it made his stomach flip.
You’re the first,she said simply.
There won’t be any comparing.