I post the Metatron chapters without reading them. So i can read them with all of you. Metatron is never in the document when i do mine so they never see my replies til after it is done. It's super fun. I just ramped up the pettiness in this one you are right Johnny... Tori didn't like that at all. Good luck Metatron!
Tori POV the art of the unbothered woman
Letting go wasn't supposed to feel this damn personal.
But Jade made it personal.
She wanted to pretend she didn't care?
Fine.
I could do detached too.
Hell, I could teach a masterclass.
Lesson One: Move like you're already over it…even if your body remembers the exact way her breath used to hitch when your thigh pressed between hers.
That's how I ended up at this tattoo shop…low lighting, steady bass in the walls, and the bite of antiseptic in the air.
The artist raised a brow when I slid my shorts off and propped my leg up just enough for him to see the placement.
"You're sure about this?" he asked, glancing at the sketch.
"Two weeks," I said, calm as hell. "Temporary. That's all I want." I could never change it permanently. I liked belonging to her… even if she had thrown me away. It was proof that once some one loved me, and maybe some day someone could love me again.
But right now… I had a game to play.
The tattoo artist nodded, unbothered, gloves already snapping into place.
As the buzzing needle hovered over my right upper inner thigh, I stared straight ahead.
Didn't flinch. Didn't breathe too deep.
It was the exact spot where Jade used to press her mouth, slow and reverent, tracing the edge of the old design with her tongue when she was in one of those moods.
Still touched it like muscle memory.
And now?
Now it was a black-inked butterfly in flight. Wings soft, outstretched, inked like it had just broken free.
The artist sat back when he was done.
"You want to see it?"
I slid off the chair, tugged my shorts back up, and didn't even look down.
"I already know what it says."
Back at the apartment, I moved quiet. Intentional.
The boys were over…Beck and Andre spread out on the couch, barefoot and arguing over movie sequels.
Jade sat with them, one leg tucked beneath her, a blanket slung over her lap.
Relaxed. Effortless.
And yeah, she laughed when Andre called Beck a film snob, but the moment I walked in?
Stillness.
Her gaze snapped to my legs.
She didn't blink.
Her eyes tracked the edge of my shorts like they might rise an inch higher if she stared hard enough.
Because she knew exactly where that ink lived now.
Knew what used to be there.
And what it used to mean.
Then I saw it.
The faintest twitch in her fingers.
She touched her own left upper thigh, a simple, instinctual brush of her hand like she'd been branded.
Because she had the same tattoo.
Same place.
Our sigils used to line up…perfectly…when we scissored, hot and gasping, skin slick, tattoos pressed together like they were kissing too.
Now hers was still there.
Mine had taken flight.
We ordered Thai food and kept it light.
No tension, no drama.
Just shared stories and old music, the four of us laughing like we hadn't all been soaked in history.
Because I was friends with Beck and Andre too.
This wasn't about sides.
It was about space.
And reclaiming mine.
I let Beck drape his arm over the back of the couch. Let Andre tease me about my taste in movies. Let the three of them slip into our usual rhythm.
But I saw Jade's eyes drift.
Every time I shifted, her gaze flicked toward my thigh.
Like she couldn't help it.
Like it called to her.
Later, after the guys left and the apartment fell back into quiet, Jade lingered in the kitchen.
She didn't say anything at first.
Just stood there, mug in hand, barefoot in one of my old shirts.
I leaned on the counter, sipping water, all softness and slow breath.
"You covered it," she said finally, voice rough.
I didn't answer right away.
Just lifted one brow.
She nodded once.
Then looked down at her leg…just a glance, but enough.
Her fingers brushed that same spot again.
Left thigh. Memory lane.
We didn't say it.
Didn't have to.
But the ghosts of what we were?
They were dancing under our skin.
The next night, Jade was out late. Some writing workshop downtown, probably sipping herbal tea and pretending she didn't Google the meaning of my covering my tattoo.
That's when I texted Rashad.
Nothing dramatic. Just:
"You free tonight?"
He responded with a winking emoji and a "be there in 30."
I didn't dress up. Didn't have to.
He'd already seen me naked.
But I still chose the softest tank top I owned…no bra. Let it hang loose just enough.
Shorts No underwear this time.
I wanted skin.
I wanted heat.
I wanted noise.
When he arrived, I greeted him with a smirk and a lazy arm around his neck. No need for words.
We didn't bother with the couch.
My door stayed open…just enough.
The window too.
Let her hear it.
We didn't rush.
Rashad knew how to take his time. Hands calloused, lips full.
When he kissed me, it was slow and exploratory, like he was mapping me out again.
I let him.
Because I wanted Jade to know someone else had their mouth on me.
Not on my heart.
But on my skin.
When it was over, he didn't roll out fast.
He stayed there for a bit, one hand dragging along my hip like he wasn't ready to let go.
"You're different tonight," he murmured.
I just smiled.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
He kissed me again…a full, deep, lingering kiss. The kind that tasted like the end of something that was never going to start.
He pulled back, pupils still blown.
"You're dangerous."
"You're late," I replied, slipping out of the bed.
He chuckled, pulling on his hoodie.
At the door, he kissed me again…same slowness, like he meant it.
Like we'd shared something intimate.
Not just sex.
Not just spite.
But a moment.
I didn't stop him.
Didn't rush him out.
But when the door clicked shut and his footsteps faded down the hall…
That's when I saw her.
Jade.
Sitting on the couch in the shadows like some gothic goddamn statue.
Leg crossed. One arm draped over the back. Eyes locked on the muted TV, but not watching it.
No blanket this time.
Just her and that haunted posture.
And her fingers?
Resting on her left inner thigh…right over the ink.
Oh, she'd heard everything.
I walked to the fridge like she wasn't there.
Grabbed my water. Took a slow sip.
She still didn't speak.
I didn't either.
But my body did.
Every step was a flex.
A whisper.
A dare.
And just before I turned the corner to my room, I glanced back…barely.
Her jaw was clenched.
Her eyes?
On my thigh.
Where the butterfly lived now.
Where she used to.
"Don't wait up next time. I'm grown."
Then I padded back toward my room.
I closed the door, but not all the way.
Left it cracked.
Because I wanted her to hear me laugh to myself.
To wonder if I was on the phone.
To wonder.
Let her sit with that.