Timothy’s tone is mild. “He won’t.”
Mitchell leans on the counter, amused. “He’ll say ‘logistical concern,’ and we’ll all pretend that means love.”
“I don’t love…” I begin.
Freddie points at me with his pen. “He said the L word. He tried.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did,” Freddie insists.
I roll my eyes. These guys barely know me, I’m not going to take their teasing to heart.
Timothy nudges the chair with his foot. “All right. Forearm flat.”
I do it.
Freddie finishes his sketch, rips the page free, and slides it toward me.
It’s clean. Minimal. A dark panel, almost a solid bar of shadow, with fractures running through it. The cracks aren’t all over the place. They’re deliberate. The pane broke, but didn’t collapse. And threaded through the breaks are thin lines of gold, bright and stubborn.
Not pretty.
Strong.
“Thoughts?” Freddie asks.
“It’s good,” I say.
Freddie gasps. “Wow. A compliment. Write it down.”
Mitchell taps the counter. “He’ll regret that in five minutes.”
Timothy reaches for transfer gel. “Placement check.”
Freddie steps around, holding the stencil over my inner forearm. “Like this. You’ll see it when you reach. When you build. When you fix.”
Timothy peels the stencil paper away. The outline clings to my skin in purple lines, the shape of a break turned into something designed.
Freddie steps back, evaluating carefully. “Nice. Real nice.”
He glances at Timothy. “You want to do the linework?”
Timothy shakes his head. “It’s his idea. He should get the honors.”
Freddie’s grin widens. “Aw, look at you two. Sharing.”
Mitchell points toward the chair. “All right. Let’s get it done before he changes his mind and runs into the woods.”
“I don’t run,” I say flatly.
Freddie flips the machine on, and the buzz fills the room. “Everyone says that. Then they see the needle.”
I look at the needle.
Then at him.
“I’ve had worse.”
