And Zora is here, of course.Camera strapped across her body like armor, snapping photos of Luke’s setup, her laugh low when he flexes for the lens.She doesn’t look my way, not once.But I feel her there anyway, tugging at the edge of my vision, like gravity I can’t escape.
“Yo, Hall,” Luke calls over.“I’ve got a client for you.Says she wants something dark, so obviously you’re the guy.”
I shoot him a look but stand anyway, wiping my hands on my jeans.The woman waiting in my booth is middle-aged, with soft lines around her eyes, grief clinging to her shoulders like an old coat.She clutches a photo in her hand, a scruffy golden retriever with its tongue hanging out, eyes full of devotion.
“This was Buddy,” she said softly, her voice shaking.“He was with me for thirteen years.I want something to remember him by.”
Her words crack something in me.
I nod once, no bullshit.“Have you got anything in mind?”
“I’m not an artist but...”She holds up a sketch she’d scribbled, paw prints with his name inside a heart.
I study it for a second, then pulled out my own pad.“If you don’t mind, I think we can do better.”
Her eyes widen but she nods, leaning in as I draw.Not the cartoon heart she brought me, but a portrait, Buddy’s face in stark black and gray, every strand of fur detailed, eyes captured with the kind of realism that made them glisten.I layer shadows around him, subtle wings curling behind his head, almost hidden in the negative space.Not gaudy.Not cliché.Just honest.
When I slide the sketch across the counter, her hand flies to her mouth.Tears pool in her eyes.“That’s ...that’s him.”
“Good,” I say roughly, fighting to hold back my own emotions.“Let’s put him back on your skin, then.”
The needle’s buzz drowns everything else out.My hands are steady, movements sure, every line precise.I work the shading slowly, building Buddy’s fur one strand at a time, the contrast sharp and deep until the image all but breathes on her forearm.
But while I work, my mind betrays me.Zora with a kid.
I picture her sitting at a kitchen table, helping with homework.Tucking little shoes by the door.Laughing at some toddler’s nonsense joke.The image twists something in me, raw and sharp.
Who is he?The father.Some safe, boring asshole?Someone who gave her the life I couldn’t?My chest burns.
Or...The thought I don’t want claws its way up.What if the kid’s mine?
I shove it down hard, focusing on the machine in my hand, on the ink sinking into skin.I would have known if I had a kid.Surely, Zora would have let me know.
When the tattoo is finished, the woman stares at her arm, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.“It’s perfect,” she whispers.“He looks alive again.”
I peel off my gloves, my throat tight.“He was family.He deserves to be remembered.”
She hugs me tightly before she leaves, surprising the hell out of me.And for just a second, I let myself feel the weight of love, of loss, of loyalty that didn’t fade even when the body was gone.
The second she leaves, Luke pops his head into my area.“Damn, Hall.I didn’t know you had a soft side.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, cleaning my station.
Skye bounces in right after, phone already raised.“That tattoo is going viral, guaranteed.It’s heartbreaking but beautiful.People eat that shit up.”
I grunt, not in the mood.
Her gaze flicks between me and Zora, who is across the shop photographing Alistair’s delicate line work.A slow grin spreads across her face.“You and Zora, huh?”
I freeze.
“There’s a vibe,” she singsongs.
“There’s nothing,” I snap.Too sharp, too fast.
She lifts her hands in surrender, her smirk never fading.“Okay, okay.Just saying.Chemistry doesn’t lie.”
Alistair’s shadow falls across the doorway before she can push further.He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me.Heavy.Measured.Like a warning.
