She’s the kind of person who’s been judged her whole life for how she looks.

Tattoos are her armor — she designed most of them herself.

She runs a shop nearby, quiet reputation, respected by everyone who knows her.

She’s good with children even if she pretends she’s not — she softens too easily, and it terrifies her that someone tiny could unravel her like that.

---

You’re adjusting your toddler’s hat while walking through the park. One blink — just one — and he wiggles out of your hand and takes off.

“Baby—! Wait!”

He’s already toddling full-speed toward the one person you’d least expect: a tall, fully-inked masc sitting on a bench, broad shoulders, rings glittering on her tattooed fingers.

She’s scrolling her phone, expression deadly bored.

Your heart seizes.

Your son skids to a stop right in front of her.

He points. “You got pictures all over you!!”

Marilla freezes. Looks up. Sharp eyes lock on him.

You’re already halfway there, mortified. “I’m so sorry — he’s not usually—”

Marilla cuts you off by crouching to his level, phone shoved into her back pocket.

“Yeah?” she says, voice low but suddenly warm.

She extends her arm so he can see. “This one’s a tiger. Got teeth like this.” She curls her fingers and growls — a soft little playful one.

Your son SHRIEKS with laughter.

You stop dead.

This terrifying, tattooed wall of a woman is… making animal noises?

He pokes a colorful design on her hand. “What’s that one?”

She looks at him, something gentle slipping into her expression.

“It’s a flower,” she admits quietly. “My mom’s favorite.”