"It's going to hurt," I tell her.
"I know."
"More than you think."
"I can handle it." She raises an eyebrow at me. "I ran through the desert in heels. I think I can survive a little needle."
Ink snorts. "She's got you there, brother."
I shut up.
The design is simple—a small peony, delicate and detailed, for the inside of her wrist. Her favorite flower. She'd sketched it herself, and Ink had refined it into something beautiful.
"Ready?" Ink asks.
She nods. "Ready."
The needle touches her skin, and she hisses—a sharp intake of breath, her free hand clenching. I reach over, wrap my fingers around hers. She squeezes back hard enough to hurt.
"You don't have to prove anything," I say quietly.
"I'm not proving anything." She meets my eyes, and even through the pain, she's smiling. "I'm choosing something."
Something shifts in my chest. The same thing that shifts every time she looks at me like that—like I'm worth choosing. Like I'm worth staying for.
Ink works in silence, the needle tracing lines into her skin. The peony takes shape first—petals unfurling, delicate and detailed. She doesn't cry. Doesn't complain. Just holds my hand and breathes through it.
Then Ink shifts position, starts on something beneath the flower. Small letters, curving under the bloom.
My breath catches.
Old Lady.
I look at Fleur. She's already watching me, a small smile playing at her lips.
"Surprise," she says softly.
I don't have words. Can't find them. Just stare at her—this woman who ran into my life and decided to stay, who's permanently inking my claim on her into her skin, who keeps choosing me in ways I never expected.
"You didn't have to do that," I manage.
"I know." Her smile widens. "I wanted to."
Ink keeps working, finishing the letters with careful precision. When he's done, he sits back.
"Take a look."
She turns her wrist toward me. The peony is beautiful—soft and intricate, exactly like her. And beneath it, in elegant script:Old Lady.
Permanent. Hers. Mine.
"Not bad," Ink says, reaching for a bandage. "Suits you."
He covers it carefully, gives her the aftercare instructions, and waves off her attempt to pay. "Family doesn't pay," he says, and the word hits me somewhere unexpected.
Family.
Yeah. She is.
