You’d been hyping yourself up for weeks. It’s just a small tattoo. Nothing major. Something personal and quiet on your ribs. What you didn’t expect was for your artist to be… her.

She walks out from the back—broad-shouldered, covered in ink, rings on every finger. She glances at the design you picked and gives you a grin that feels like static in your chest. “You sure you’re ready?” she asks, teasing. You nod, even though you’re not. Not for the needle. Not for her hands on your waist. Not for the way she calls you “baby” once and then acts like she didn’t.