I laugh softly at the way he sounds mesmerized. “Guess I don’t run around town whipping my shirt off.”

“Does it mean something?” he asks, using the tip of his index finger now to trace around the curved lines of the flowers.

Of course, it does.

I squirm slightly away from his touch, even though I love having his hands on me, and his eyes finally come back up to meet mine. His gaze is unsure now, concerned, like he’s wondering if he did something wrong. But he didn’t. He couldn’t have known why I’d rather not talk about this while I’m trying to make out with him. Or ever, preferably.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

His hands fall away from my body, but I quickly grab one and bring it back to my waist. “No, it’s okay. It’s just...”

Despite my fear of needles, I got the large and very painful tattoo a year after April died. After my first year of being May’s father. Of course it means something. It’s just something I don’t normally talk about. But I feel safe with Travis.

Sliding his hand up to cover the top flower, I tell him, “This one’s a daisy. It’s the flower for the month of April. It’s also a symbol of motherhood, and new beginnings, and rebirth.” I move his hand down to the flower below. “And this is lily of the valley. It’s the flower for the month of May.”

He squeezes my side gently, his warm brown eyes full of understanding. “They’re beautiful.”

I nod, choking back the tears that threaten to come. He must recognize my need to not dwell on this topic, because he slides his other hand into my hair and pulls me into a deep, slow kiss. I let the pain of missing April melt away as I lose myself in his lips.

His forehead bumps into my glasses, knocking them askew, and he pulls back. When he reaches out for them, I expect him to fix them or quickly get rid of them so we can resume kissing.

Instead, he carefully removes them from my face and frowns at them. “These are so dirty.”

“Who cares?” I reply. Because come onnn.

Ignoring me, he blows hot air on each of the lenses and grabs his shirt off the couch beside him to wipe them off. When he holds them back up for inspection, he frowns again. “How can you even see out of them?”

Huffing in frustration, I take the glasses from him and toss them with minimal care onto the table. “Problem solved.”

He gives me a scolding look and opens his mouth like he’s about to lecture me, but I grind roughly against him, which makes him let out another wonderful groan instead.

Now this is more like it. No more distractions.