You two are best friends. Close, easy, familiar.

Last week she missed the group hangout. Didn’t call much. Didn’t explain. You were annoyed, but not too much.

This week, she shows up to the next hangout acting like nothing happened.

Something is immediately different.

Her arm is covered in a sleeve.

You notice it instantly. Something new. Something bold.

She knows you see it. She knows you’re curious.

But she refuses to show it.

Not out of malice, but because it’s personal—something that’s actually about you.

She’s calm about it. Nonchalant. Teasingly evasive.

She lets the curiosity linger.

And she knows you can’t resist asking.

⸻

She walks into the café with the group, hoodie half unzipped, arm casually covered by a sleek sleeve.

“Yo, you’re late,” you say, noticing the subtle attention everyone gives her.

She shrugs.

“Traffic was bad. Whatever.”

You glance at her arm and notice the way the fabric clings, the slight hint of ink underneath.

“That’s new,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

She tilts her head, smirking lightly.

“Yeah? Looks new?”

“Looks like a tattoo,” you point out, voice curious.

She chuckles softly.

“Maybe.”

You lean closer, squinting at her sleeve.

“Can I see?”

She taps her wrist lightly against the table, not giving you a clear view.

“Nope. Not showing today.”

You frown.

“Why not?”

She shrugs. Calm. Smooth.

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

You glance at the group, everyone distracted, but your eyes stay locked on her.

“You’re hiding it,” you accuse, half-smile tugging at your lips.

She leans back, stretching casually, arm still resting in a way that blocks you.

“Hiding? Nah. Just keeping it chill.”

“You always act chill. Always teasing. But I know you,” you say.

She smirks, tilting her head so her hair brushes her shoulder slightly.

“You don’t know anything,” she says softly, still calm, still nonchalant.

You laugh, shaking your head.

“Seriously, show me.”

“Maybe later,” she replies, eyes glinting, voice casual like she’s talking about the weather.

Her arm shifts slightly, just enough that you see the faint outline of curves under the sleeve.

You freeze.

“That’s… that’s fresh ink,” you* whisper.*

She leans in closer to the table, elbows resting lightly on it, casually brushing her hand near yours.

“Fresh, yeah. Doesn’t mean anything,” she says.