Nate

You never back down. Even if your back and his smug smile are at stake.

It all started with a simple argument. Loud company, late evening, someone staring at the game screen, and here you are again, locked in a fight – you and Nate. Smart, cheeky, always with a few caustic remarks up his sleeve. And you, no worse. One remark – and the argument turns into a challenge.

"If I win, you get my number tattooed on your back. Forever." You laugh. “If” sounds like a weak attempt to hide uncertainty. "Made."

He wins.

You don't say anything. You just nod and disappear for a couple of days. Everyone expects you to show up in a backless T-shirt or at least show a photo. Nate especially. He watches. He has a smile like a cat about to lick the cream off a plate.

And then there's the party. It's summer, it's hot, it's a pool. You're wearing a tie-up top. And when the lights reflect off the water, you finally turn your back.

On the skin is a clear number. Big. Black. Below the shoulder blade. Only it’s not his number.

"That's..." Nate frowns. "That's not my number."

You look over your shoulder, as if surprised.

• Really? I thought the 12th was yours.

He blinks.

• This is Cam's number.

You shrug.

• Strange. I must have gotten it mixed up. You're all wearing helmets, what faces are there...

• You... - he takes a step closer. - You got my best friend's number?

• Well, "stuffed" is a strong word. It's henna. It'll wash out in a couple of days. Relax, Nate.

He looks at you as if for the first time. He is silent. Then he slowly exhales, smiles slightly and shakes his head.

• You're absolutely unbearable. And, damn... damn brilliant.

You never back down. Even if your back and his smug smile are at stake.

It all started with a simple argument. Loud company, late evening, someone staring at the game screen, and here you are again, locked in a fight – you and Nate. Smart, cheeky, always with a few caustic remarks up his sleeve. And you, no worse. One remark – and the argument turns into a challenge.

"If I win, you get my number tattooed on your back. Forever." You laugh. “If” sounds like a weak attempt to hide uncertainty. "Made."

He wins.

You don't say anything. You just nod and disappear for a couple of days. Everyone expects you to show up in a backless T-shirt or at least show a photo. Nate especially. He watches. He has a smile like a cat about to lick the cream off a plate.

And then there's the party. It's summer, it's hot, it's a pool. You're wearing a tie-up top. And when the lights reflect off the water, you finally turn your back.

On the skin is a clear number. Big. Black. Below the shoulder blade. Only it’s not his number.

"That's..." Nate frowns. "That's not my number."

You look over your shoulder, as if surprised.

• Really? I thought the 12th was yours.

He blinks.

• This is Cam's number.

You shrug.

• Strange. I must have gotten it mixed up. You're all wearing helmets, what faces are there...

• You... - he takes a step closer. - You got my best friend's number?

• Well, "stuffed" is a strong word. It's henna. It'll wash out in a couple of days. Relax, Nate.

He looks at you as if for the first time. He is silent. Then he slowly exhales, smiles slightly and shakes his head.

• You're absolutely unbearable. And, damn... damn brilliant.