PAPER SKIN, INKED HANDS

ZACH

I’ve never been afraid of sharp things.

Blades, broken glass, bone-deep truth, they don’t scare me.

People do. Specifically, the ones who look soft enough to keep.

Because those are the ones who teach you how to want, and then make you bleed for it.

And Alana?

She’s the kind of beautiful that makes you stupid.

The kind that should’ve come with a warning label and a padded cell.

She doesn’t look like she belongs anywhere near a guy like me.

But somehow, she keeps showing up. And worse, she stays.

She met me at the edge of the city this morning. Said she wanted to show me something. No explanation. No plan. Just those blue eyes and that slight tilt to her smile like she already knew I’d follow.

I did. Of course I did.

Now we’re walking through the old botanical gardens, what’s left of them anyway. Half the greenhouse is glass shards and moss. Wild vines wrap the beams. The water features are dry, cracked like veins in concrete.

It’s abandoned. Forgotten.

Kind of like me.

She skips ahead in that stupid sundress she always wears. This one’s pale yellow with tiny blue flowers. Too delicate for the dirt. Too sweet for the city. It should’ve looked ridiculous here, but it doesn’t.

She looks like something carved out of a dream, or a threat dressed like one.

Dirty blonde hair, long and loose, whipping in the wind like it doesn’t care who watches.

Blue eyes, not icy or pale, but deep, sharp like glass submerged in clear water.

Skin not pale, not tan - just right. The kind of skin that catches sunlight and makes you forget how cold the world is.

She walks like the world’s never touched her. But I’ve seen the way she flinches when people raise their voice. The way she spaces out mid-sentence like she’s remembering something she can’t talk about.

She’s paper skin, bound in iron.

A porcelain doll with barbed wire in her chest.

And I think I’m already fucking in love with her.

“You ever think about burning it all down?” she asks suddenly, spinning in place near a cracked fountain.

“What, the greenhouse?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“No. Everything.” She turns toward me. “The whole system. Every crooked man at the top.”

I pause. “That’s oddly specific.”

She smiles but doesn’t explain. Just walks over, stands beside me, and rests her head on my shoulder like it’s nothing. Like this is normal.

It’s not.

Nothing about this is.

I’ve been kissed by girls who didn’t care if I lived or died. I’ve had friends who only called when they needed a place to hide. But Alana? She touches me like I’m something that matters. Like I’m real.

And that messes with me in a way I don’t know how to untangle.

“Do you really think peace is possible for people like us?” she asks quietly.

“For me?” I snort. “Probably not. For you?”

She lifts her head to look at me. “You don’t think I’m peaceful?”

“No,” I say. “I think you’re pretending.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. And that’s when I know I’m right.

I grew up around liars. Group homes and temporary guardians. Social workers who smiled through their teeth. Case files that labeled me “aggressive” or “emotionally closed off.” No one ever bothered to ask why. They just wanted the pieces to fit in neat little boxes.

But Alana… she’s a different kind of liar.

Not careless. Not cruel.

Intentional.

The kind of liar who lies because she loves something.

Or hates something.

I haven’t figured out which yet.

But I will. And when I do, I’m not sure I’ll care either way.

We sit on a broken bench near the overgrown koi pond. I light a cigarette. She leans back, legs crossed, eyes scanning the shattered glass dome above us.

“You ever gonna tell me what your tattoos mean?” she asks softly.

“No,” I say, taking a drag. “You ever gonna tell me what you’re hiding?”

She looks at me and smiles. Not the bright, flirty one she gives strangers. The real one. The sad one. The one she thinks I won’t notice.

“Maybe.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either.”

Fair enough.

I glance at my arm, where the ink wraps around like a story I haven’t finished telling. Some of it I don’t even remember getting. The band on my forearm was done by a guy in a shelter bathroom when I was sixteen. It’s not perfect, but it reminds me that I kept going when I should’ve stopped.

The wings on my shoulder were for my brother. Not by blood, but close enough. He didn’t make it past eighteen. Got caught in a robbery he wasn’t even part of. Wrong place. Wrong time. I wear the wings so I don’t forget that none of us are promised more than one wrong move.

Alana touches the edge of that tattoo now, her fingers brushing over the fabric of my sleeve.

“This one’s different,” she murmurs.

“So are you.”

She looks up at me like she wants to say something else. Like she wants to confess something impossible. But instead, she changes the subject.

“You always draw birds.”

“I like the idea of flying.”

“You could still get out of here.”

“Could you?”

She doesn’t answer. Her silence is too loud.

Back at my place, she doesn’t leave right away.

We sit on the couch, old, torn, smells like smoke and pine. She runs her fingers over one of my books. I keep maybe six total. I’m not big on reading, but the ones I do own are highlighted, underlined, pages folded so many times they barely hold together. It surprises her, I think. She always assumed I was more violence than depth.

Maybe I am.

But she brings out the part of me that wants to be seen. Not just used.

She eventually kicks off her shoes and pulls her legs onto the cushion, leaning against me.

“This okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

Her head rests on my chest. Her fingers find one of my rings and trace the metal edge. It’s a cheap thing I’ve worn since I was fifteen. A gift from someone I used to trust. It’s not valuable, but it reminds me what trust costs.

“You think people like us can really have something normal?” she whispers.

“No,” I admit. “But I think we can have something.”

She nods against my chest.

“I don’t need normal.”

“I wouldn’t want it if I could have it.”

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, those ocean-deep eyes searching mine.

“So what do you want?”

You.

But I don’t say that out loud.

Instead, I trace her jaw with my thumb and whisper, “Answers.”

Later, when she finally leaves, I stand at the window and watch her go.

That sundress sways as she walks down the street like it doesn’t weigh a thing. Like she doesn’t carry anything heavy inside her.

But I know better now. She’s not a doll. She’s a blade. And every time I get closer, I cut myself a little more.

But hell if I’m gonna stop.

Because nothing about this girl is safe and that’s exactly why I can’t walk away.