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Summary
Sometimes, when he can feel Piper pulling away from them, he wants to tell her that he remembers where all her freckles are. That he still owns the shirt that he wore when she got the worst nosebleed ever during their family summer tour of Italy. They were in between cathedrals, ducked into a shadowy corner as she used his sleeve to stem the bleeding because she didn’t have anything else and he offered.
“Sorry, Lochy,” she said before flashing him her perfect smile. He washed the shirt after, of course he did, but it never lost the rust-colored stain smudged across the collar down to his sleeve. Reminding him how back then, she was still young enough to do something stupid like wipe her nose on his shirt just because he offered it to her and they knew the adults in their lives wouldn’t provide them with a better solution.