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Coups de cœur Cultura
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I ran from him once. Thought I could outrun the pull, the way his hands felt like they owned my bones before they even touched me. But the city got loud, the nights got cold, and my own pride started tasting like ash. So I went back. Knocked on his door like a stray dog hoping the master still kept the porch light on. He answered in a faded tee, ink staining his knuckles, eyes dark enough to swallow me whole. He did not ask why I came back. He just stepped aside and let me in.
Cole never begged. He does not know how. He takes what is his, and I am tired of pretending I belong anywhere else. The tattoo needle buzzes against my hip, dragging his name into my skin like a vow I never spoke out loud. It burns. It aches. It feels like coming home to a place I swore I would never return to. I kneel on the floorboards, knees pressing into the wood, and offer him the only thing I have left. My surrender. My throat. My quiet yes.
This is not a fairy tale. It is messy, it is raw, and it is exactly what I asked for. He claims me with a hunger that leaves no room for doubt. I take it. I take all of it. And when the ink settles and the breathing finally steadies, we both know there is no walking away this time. I am marked. I am his. Forever.
