The first time I told my parents I wanted a tattoo, they laughed. Not in a funny way — in that clipped, dismissive way rich people laugh when they think something’s beneath them. My mother, with her pearls and champagne voice, said, “Darling, tattoos are for people who don’t have a future to protect.” I was eighteen then. I let it go.

Now I’m twenty-two — I still know I shouldn’t. But I want one anyway.

Jules my bsf pushed open the heavy glass door to the shop, the bell above it jingling as we stepped in. The place smelled faintly of disinfectant and ink, and soft music hummed from somewhere behind the counter. I could feel Jules grinning beside me, her cropped hair catching the light as she whispered, “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“I told you,” I said, smiling back. “It’s happening this time.”

I wasn’t nervous. I felt good — light, almost. Dressed in a white tank, denim skirt, and my favorite boots, I looked like the version of myself my parents pretended didn’t exist.

Then he walked out from the back room — the tattoo artist.

Tall, broad shoulders, maybe mid-thirties. His arms were covered in ink, intricate designs winding up to where they disappeared beneath his black T-shirt. He had messy hair that looked like he’d given up trying to tame it, and a beard that wasn’t too thick — just enough to make him look effortlessly rugged. When he leaned against the counter, his forearms flexed, and for a second, I forgot what I was even there for.

I smiled, bright and easy.