“I thought this was gonna be flat,” she said. “You said one color and I was like, okay, fine, minimalist era. But this—” She reached toward it and I caught her hand before her fingertip could make contact.
“Don’t touch.”
“Right. Sorry.” She laughed, still staring. “It looks amazing.”
“Thank you,” I said, and peeled off my gloves.
Misty eased herself out of the chair, testing her weight, then glanced at me. Her grin faded just enough.
“You look like you’re about to walk into traffic,” she said. “It’s better to just get it over with. Clean break.”
I gave her a tight smile, and started wrapping her wrist, smoothing the film over the ink. “Yeah.”
Get it over with. Easy-peasy.
As if feelings were a bandage you could rip off and toss in the trash at the slightest inconvenience.
If I were honest with myself, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be over it. That was the problem.
Misty paid, promised to tag the shop in every photo she posted, and disappeared through the curtain. The bell over the front door chimed a minute later. I sat alone in the booth with the machine in its cradle and the faint imprint of her arm still warm against the armrest of the chair.
I stacked the used ink caps, wiped down the tray, folded the paper towels into the trash. My pulse refused to settle, though. I told myself I had time. I could breathe. I could decide how this would go.
The curtain shifted before I’d even finished disinfecting everything.
Aiden stepped inside and let the curtain fall closed behind him. He didn’t raise his voice, or pace nervously. His contained impatience filled the space anyway, as though he’d packed it tight beneath his skin.
“I came looking for you last night,” he said. “But you weren’t here.”
I capped the bottle and set it aside. “Surprise, surprise. I don’t actually live in the shop. I have an apartment. A couch. A life outside of ink.”
He crossed the few steps between us and lifted his hand to my face, his palm warm against my cheek. The contact sent a memory across my mouth, the echo of his kiss, the way I’d melted into him without thinking.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
I didn’t pull away, but I didn’t lean in either. “There’s nothing to talk about, Aiden.”
The words scraped my throat on the way out. He wasn’t cruel. He hadn’t lied to me. If things were different—if I were built differently—we could probably make something work. I knew that. But like everything else, I kept it to myself.
“You don’t have to talk,” he said. “But I have a few things to say.”
I shook my head. “Dragging this out won’t help. You need to leave, Aiden. Please. And you need to forget about anything happening between us.”
His jaw tightened. Before I could read what he was about to do, he shrugged out of his jacket and tugged his shirt over his head in one motion. His clothes fell to the floor.
“What are you doing?”
He dropped into the chair Misty had just vacated, bare chest against the vinyl, hands braced on the armrests. “I want a new tattoo.”
It took me a beat to catch up. “You’re kidding.”
“This is a tattoo studio. I want a tattoo.” His mouth curved without humor. “Strictly platonic.”
I stared at him. “I doubt that. And if it’s a tattoo you want, you can go out front and make an appointment. I won’t be your artist, though. One of the other guys will—”
“Sage, please.”
I held his gaze. Said nothing. I wasn’t going to be tricked into talking. Not when there was no point to any of it.
