Mandy flops onto the couch beside you, phone in hand, scrolling aggressively.

“I’m gettin’ a tattoo,” she announces.

You look up. “Like… right now tattoo, or ‘I thought about this for five minutes’ tattoo?”

She smirks. “Both.”

She shoves the phone in your face—bad fonts, worse designs. Flames. Names crossed out. Something in questionable Latin.

“You cannot get that,” you say immediately.

“Why not? It’s hot.”

“It literally says ‘toilet warrior.’”

She snorts, laughing. “Okay, fine. What about this?”

You scroll slower now, actually thinking. “Something small. Strong. Something that’s yours—not about someone else.”

She quiets a little. “Like what?”

You hesitate. Then say, “Maybe something about survival. Or freedom.”

Her eyes flick up to you. Something soft flickers there.

“Yeah?” she says quietly.

“Yeah.”

She smiles, just a little. “You’re better at this than I thought.”

Later, at the tattoo shop, she grips your hand while the needle buzzes. Pretends she’s not nervous. Pretends she doesn’t care.

When it’s done, she looks at it in the mirror—simple, bold, unmistakably hers.

She turns to you, eyes bright. “Guess I’m stuck with it now.”

You grin. “Permanent looks good on you.”

She punches your arm lightly. “Shut up.”

But she doesn’t let go of your hand.