He studies it for a moment. “That’s permanent ink.”
“So is the way he changed my life,” I reply without hesitation.
I tug my hoodie slightly aside and gesture to the curve of my ribs beneath my breast. “I want it here. Private. Just for us.”
He preps the station while I slip out of my hoodie and shift my shirt enough to expose the placement. The chair is cool beneath my thighs. The machine hums to life and my nerves flutter briefly at the sound, but the certainty doesn’t waver.
“You sure?” he asks, one last check.
“Completely.”
The first touch of the needle stings sharp enough to pull a breath from my lungs, but it settles quickly into a steady, manageable burn. I focus on breathing slowly, on the vibration beneath my skin, on the simple truth of what I’m choosing.
It’s about Javier taking the weight when my shoulders get tired and letting me rest inside that steadiness instead of always standing guard. It’s about how he leads without making me smaller, how he protects without locking me away, how he shows up every single time without hesitation.
When he finally wipes the area clean and leans back, he tilts the mirror toward me. “Alright. Take a look.”
I angle it carefully and lean in, breath catching just a little as the image sharpens into focus. His name curves softly along my ribs in delicate script, the date tucked beneath it in smaller, steady numbers. My skin is faintly flushed around the ink, still warm and sensitive, but the lines are clean and precise. It sits exactly where I wanted it. Private. Intentional. Permanent.
Mine.
A quiet smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it, something steady and settled blooming in my chest.
“That’s beautiful,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.
He gives a small nod, clearly satisfied. “Yeah. That’s gonna age real nice.”
Then he reaches for the clear wrap and steps closer. “Alright. Let’s get you covered up.”
He smooths the film carefully over my ribs, sealing the edges so it stays in place without tugging at my skin. “Leave this on for a few hours,” he explains. “Then wash it gently with lukewarm water and mild soap. Pat it dry. Don’t rub. Thin layer of unscented ointment after that, a couple times a day.”
I nod, committing it all to memory.
“No tight clothes on it for a few days, and don’t soak it. No baths, no swimming. It’s gonna itch when it starts healing. Don’t scratch it.”
“Sounds like torture,” I say lightly.
He snorts. “Worth it.”
He steps back once the wrap is secure. “And yeah,” he adds, glancing at the covered ink. “Rev’s gonna have a moment when he finally sees that.”
A soft laugh slips out of me. “Yeah. I think he might.”
I pull my hoodie back into place carefully, thank him, and step outside into the cool morning air, lungs grateful for the change from the sharp shop scent. My skin still hums faintly beneath the wrap, a steady reminder of the choice I just made, and the world feels lighter when I breathe it in, like something inside me finally clicked into place.
I knowhe notices before I even say anything. He always does. The way his attention sharpens when something doesn’t sit right. The way his eyes track the smallest shifts in my body language. I try to move like nothing’s different, but the faint warmth under the wrap along my ribs makes me hyperaware of every breath I take, every step I make.
He watches me from across the room, dark eyes narrowing slightly. “You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly, then soften it. “I’m good.” I cross the space between us and kiss him before he can push further,letting the familiar warmth of his mouth steady my nerves. For a second it almost works. Almost.
His arm slides around my waist and he pulls me in, solid and grounding the way he always does, but the pressure brushes the tender skin along my ribs and a sharp breath escapes me before I can stop it.
He freezes instantly and his hold on me loosens, careful now. “What was that?”
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, my hand coming up to his chest. “I’m just a little sore.”
I can tell he doesn’t buy it. The protective tension in him shifts, alert and focused, and before I can redirect him, his hands move to the hem of my shirt. “Javier,” I start, but he’s already lifting it, eyes scanning me with that steady intensity that usually makes me feel safe instead of exposed.
