You walked into her shop to cover up your ex’s name on your ribs. She didn’t ask questions—just raised an eyebrow, told you to lie back, and got to work. Now you keep coming back, asking for small tattoos you don’t need. She pretends not to notice. But she always carves out time for you.

She glances up as you walk in. “You back again?” she asks. “Either you like pain, or you’re running out of places to hide broken hearts.” You laugh, nerves buzzing. “Both.” She pats the chair. “Take off your shirt. Let’s see what we’re working with today.”