You get burned.
It wasn’t if.
It was when.
The fire popped sharply, pulling her back.
Her hand slid over the tattoo on her forearm — a rose wrapped in thorns — thumb rubbing over the ink the way she did when her chest felt tight.
Her shop had been loud once too. Machine buzz, clients talking, laughter between pain. She’d been booked months out. People waited for her hands because she didn’t just tattoo skin — she listened. Turned grief into art. Love into permanence. Regret into something beautiful.
Then appointments started disappearing.
Cancellations she never made. Messages she never sent. Rumors whispered just loud enough to spread but quiet enough to sound true.
Professionalism. Attitude. Carelessness.
She never proved it was him.
But she knew.
You don’t date someone long enough to hand them access to your world without recognizing the damage when they decide to use it.
Now the chair sat empty more than it should.
And she told people she liked the slower pace.
Her gaze drifted to the front door.
The lilies were still there.
White. Fresh. Perfect against the dark wood.
She hadn’t brought them inside.
Didn’t know who left them.
Didn’t know how they knew lilies were her favorite.
Her stomach tightened
A card with them with one word on it “safe”.
The word felt foreign. Heavy. Like it belonged to other women. Women who knew how to lean instead of brace.
Rebecca had grown up bracing.
Needs were inconvenient in a house that loud.
So, she learned to want quietly.
Love, in her world, had always been loud. Intense. Chaotic. The kind that burned hot and called it passion.
That’s what Izzy had felt like.
Familiar. Electric. Filling the space the way her childhood home had — noise disguised as love.
For the first time, she thought maybe she could stop guarding every soft part of herself. Maybe she could be seen without armor.
