The room smelled faintly of whiskey and cedar, that old worn-in scent of Joel that always made your chest feel tight. He sat in your father’s recliner, legs spread, one arm draped over the side, a glass of bourbon dangling from his fingers. He looked up at you with that slow, assessing gaze—dark, heavy, like he could see right through you.

“Got yourself ink now, huh?” he drawled, voice low and gravelly.

You nodded, slipping the strap of your tank top off your shoulder, letting him see the delicate design on your collarbone. His eyes lingered, his thumb absently rubbing the rim of his glass.

“Pretty,” he murmured, but it wasn’t just about the tattoo.

You stepped closer, the corner of your mouth curving as you said softly, “That's not the only one I got.”

Joel’s brow twitched. He didn’t move, but you saw his jaw tighten, the slow grind of his teeth. He set the glass down with a dull clink, leaning forward in the chair, elbows on his knees.

“Yeah?” His voice was softer now, raspier.

"Wanna see the hidden ones?”