“I’m a practical man. Another hour of her pacing, and someone was going to lose their shit.”
Titan grins from the couch. “Sure. That’s why you did it.”
I flip him off and head upstairs.
An hour later, I’m sitting in a chair Bonnie dragged in from somewhere, shirtless, while she sets up her station.
She’s transformed a small part of her room into a makeshift tattoo parlor. Equipment laid out on a clean towel. Ink caps filled and organized by color. Gloves, razors, transfer paper—everything in its proper place. She works in silence, checking and rechecking each piece of equipment.
This is different from the Bonnie who paces and worries and carries the weight of too many secrets. This Bonnie knows exactly what she’s doing.
“I sketched a few options while I was setting up,” she says, pulling out her phone. “Unless you want to tell me what you want specifically.”
“Your choice. I trust you.”
She scrolls through her photos, stops on one, and studies it. “This one. It’ll work well with your other ink.”
She shows me the sketch. A raven mid-flight, rendered in black and gray with incredible detail. The feathers look like they’d move if you touched them.
“It’s perfect.”
“You haven’t even looked at it for more than two seconds.”
“Don’t need to. If you drew it, it’s perfect.”
Her cheeks flush slightly. She looks away, back to her equipment. “Okay. Let me prep the area.”
She moves closer, razor in hand. Her fingers are gentle as she shaves the area where the tattoo will go. I can smell her shampoo and feel the warmth of her body this close to mine.
“This might take a few hours,” she says, wiping down my skin with alcohol. “The detail work is pretty intensive.”
“I’ve got nowhere to be.”
She positions the transfer paper, presses it against my chest, and peels it away to reveal the outline. Then she steps back to check the placement.
“Looks good,” I say.
“You didn’t even look at it.”
“I’m looking at you looking at it. That’s good enough.”
She shakes her head, but I catch the small smile. “You’re weird.”
“You’re stalling.”
“Fine.” She pulls on black gloves and picks up her machine. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The machine buzzes to life. She tests it once, adjusts something, tests it again. Then she leans in, and the needle touches my skin.
The pain is sharp and familiar. I’ve sat through dozens of tattoos over the years—each one a mark of something survived, something earned, something lost.
This one’s different.
Bonnie works with complete focus, her brow furrowed in concentration. The machine hums steadily in her hand as she traces the outline, pulling smooth lines that will become feathers and wings.
“So,” she says after a few minutes. “How long were you in the military?”
