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Sure, it might have something to do with him being so big that he’s basically a giant space heater, but I know it’s more than that. He fits—both literally in my van, and into how I live in it. That’s saying a lot because van life isn’t for the faint of heart. Plenty of wannabe influencer couples have fallen apart, thinking they could handle living in quarters so tight that life in a New York City studio apartment would feel spacious.

I’m starting to realize that falling asleep in his arms and waking up with those dazzling blue eyes on me is what feels like the home I convinced myself I didn’t want—that I didn’t need—for years.

I choose to ignore that thought for now, because in the past, that idea alone would normally raise alarm bells. Feeling complacent, feeling at ease and content somewhere—or with someone—is when I inevitably know that it’s time to leave before I establish roots I can’t pull up.

The thing is, I don’t know if I’m ready to rip those roots up before they can take hold again.

Thankfully, my stomach chooses this moment to growl, so I don’t have to focus on those pesky roots and feelings. “So, what are you making, Chef?”

“Chef? Please do not confuse me with either of my brothers. Grandma might have taught me a thing or two about cooking, but you already know I spent way more time in the garage growing up.”

I tap a finger to my lips. “Yeah, I don’t think you could pull off a chef’s coat. Mechanics coveralls suit you way better.”

He arches a brow. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Compliment.” I pucker and smack my lips at him. “The coveralls really show off your ass.”

He grins, wielding those dimples like a weapon. They make me consider asking him to get back in bed for a repeat performance of last night. But we’re still parked in the campground, and now in broad daylight, anyone could see the van rocking if we tried to do anything frisky.

“And I’m making a southwest breakfast hash—chorizo, eggs, potatoes, some hatch chiles. Again, as small as this van is, I’m surprised you don’t know every single food option we have.” He focuses back on the pan, stirring the contents.

I don’t budge from my perfect viewing position in bed, enjoying watching him cook for me. To be fair to him, he would look good in anything, as long as he rolls up his sleeves. Turning a wrench or stirring food—it doesn’t matter to me—I want to watch the way the muscles in his forearms tick and ripple under that ink. It’s the tattoo of the overlook we hiked to the other day, and so many times before that—it’s the one I’ve wanted to ask him about so many times.

“Something on your mind?” His rumbly voice snaps me out of my forearm peep show.

“Um, no? Maybe? I don’t know,” I squeak out, acting like I got caught doing something I shouldn’t have been. I don’t know why I would ever be embarrassed for staring at him, considering the things we have done together, but here we are. I feel the heat blooming across my cheeks as he squints at me skeptically. His gaze drifts between me, his tattoo, and then back to me. I already know he can see the question on my face that I hid very poorly.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says, setting down the spoon on the counter while the contents of the pan continue to sizzle. “You can ask me whatever you want about that tattoo, if I can ask you one question. How’s that sound?”

“I feel like I’m hardly in a position to negotiate, considering you’re the one in control of my caloric intake this morning. So, yes—I’ll accept those terms.”

“Alright. Ask away.” He makes a twirling gesture with his hand, and suddenly, I don’t know what I want to ask. So, I do what makes the most sense—blurt out everything.

“Was that your first tattoo? When did you get it? Why did you get it? Did⁠—”

He chuckles and leans against the counter.

“Woah. That’s a lot of questions.”

“Well, you did say ‘whatever I want’, so I want to get my money’s worth.”

“Fair enough.” He shakes his head and turns off the burner. “Let me see if I can cover all those questions. No, it was not my first tattoo. I got it after my accident.”

“After?”

He nods. “Yeah, well, not right after. After all my rehab, once I was finally able to drive again. I went to the tattoo shop I like in Taos. I had a lot of time on my hands, you know?”

He looks at me while reaching up into the cabinet above the stove, grabbing two bowls.

“Mm-hmm.”

“So, anyway, yeah, I knew I wanted it. During my physical therapy, I spent a lot of time thinking about how much I loved hiking up there, around the lake and the overlook.”

“I guess you answered my other question then… why you wanted that one.” In the back of my mind, I think I understand what he’s really saying, what he was really thinking about when he wanted to get an image of that particular place, that part of his life, inked into his skin. I take a breath and steady myself while my heart flutters, thinking about what that might mean. “So, what did you want to ask me?”

He takes a deep breath and grabs the spoon from the pan, filling the two bowls. He puts a fork in one and extends it toward me. I reach to take it from him, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on it. I look up to find his expression lacking its earlier softness.

“Can we talk about what I said last night?”