Page 58 of My Tiny Giant

“No,” I said quickly, averting my gaze. “Of course not. Why?”

There definitely was some kind of possessiveness in my feelings for Agan, whether I wanted it or not.

“Because I’d like that,” he said.

“You’d like me being jealous?”

“I’d like you thinking of me as yours,” he said slowly.

I realized how badly I wanted it, too. I wished to claim him as mine, even if for a little while.

“Why did you call the unit, Emma? You said a woman picked up your call.”

Right. I’d let that slip, hadn’t I?

“Were you searching for me?” he insisted.

“Well, yes...”

“Why?”

“Um... I just wanted to talk, to see how you were doing,” I mumbled, faltering under his inquisitive gaze.

“Did you miss me?” he pressed on, staring at me expectantly. “Admit it.”

“Well, we never said goodbye the last time I saw you, and I thought... To be completely honest, I liked how we clicked when we worked together. And I missed that.” I heaved a sigh. “Yes, Agan. I missed you.”

He met my words with a satisfied smile.

“Good.” He laid his head down, closing his eyes, as if hearing my answer finally allowed him to relax completely. “I missed you too, Eleven. So much, it even started to hurt. Right here.” He rubbed his chest.

“It hurt?” I gently stroked his arm with my finger.

“Not anymore.” He yawned, curling around one side of my breast. “Not when I’m with you.’

I tugged the cover higher over him, noting that the wound on his shoulder had healed well. A fine dusting of fur had already grown over the pale scar.

The colorful designs of his tattoos appeared etched into the skin of both shoulders and arms. The fur wasn’t growing over the ink, giving his body art a 3D effect, as if the designs had been carved into his muscles.

“What do your tattoos mean?” I asked quietly, wondering if he’d fallen asleep already.

“No meaning. I just liked the drawings...” His voice sounded drowsy. “Thought they looked cool.”

Art for vanity—it was so like Agan. And it didn’t bother me at all. There was some vanity in him, some cocky confidence that at times bordered on arrogance. It used to annoy me in him. But by now I’ve learned that Agan also had enough qualities worth admiring—loyalty, courage, honesty. I knew he felt scared and vulnerable sometimes, and I loved how well he dealt with it—with humor. He wasn’t afraid to laugh at himself.

Agan was not letting what had happened to him make him a worse person. In fact, I believed he’d been learning to be better.

“They are cool tattoos,” I said, but he didn’t reply, already snoring softly curled around my breast.

After a while, I got up and moved him to the other side of the bed. Rolling a blanket into the shape of a log, I put it as a divider between us, afraid I might accidentally roll over and hurt him in my sleep otherwise. Then I took one of my silk scarves and covered him, using it as a blanket.

“Good night, Agan,” I whispered.