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“Scoot over.” I push him slightly, sliding one arm beneath his nape and the other over his chest, throwing a leg over his in a sideways hug. He’s so warm, and his scent—bergamot and something uniquely Gareth—wraps around me like a drug. He releases a low grumble, tapping my arm. “It’s hot.” “You’re the one who’s hot.” “Corny,” he mutters, coughing slightly to hide his smile. “It still worked.” I study the sharp line of his jaw and the freckles scattered over his nose. My fingers find the hem of his shirt sleeve, lifting it just enough to trace the inked arrows on his arm. “What do these mean? Is it about your love for archery?” “Yes and no.” He stares at the ceiling, his expression clouding. “Do you know what crossed arrows symbolize?” “Balance between opposing forces? Maybe it’s about how you balance your public and private personas?” “Not quite. My personality bleeds into every part of my life anyway.” He lets out a small exhale. “The arrows remind me that no matter how tightly I try