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I sit in the familiar black leather chair and he parks himself on the roller stool, grabbing his tablet off the counter. He absent-mindedly rolls back and forth while pulling up the image.

“Okay, so this is your back now.” He shows me the photo, the scar on full display, and I glance away briefly. I’m not used to seeing it so . . . exposed. I clear my throat, feeling self-conscious and ashamed of my past. My history is ugly and I’m tired of wearing it.

That’s why you’re here, I remind myself.

Casper continues. “Here’s what I’m thinking . . .”

He taps something on the screen and suddenly the scars are gone and in their place is a gorgeous moth with extended wings. My lips part as I take the tablet from him. He points out where the edges of the scars are hidden, along ridges and lines in the moth’s wings. It’s beautiful. My back is beautiful.

After my brother Rhys had spoken so highly of Casper’s work, I decided to give him a chance. I was hesitant to have a male tattoo artist. The last man who drew on my back left those scars. Flowers on my upper arm were a good place to start, and it allowed me to have a cover story without raising Rhys’s suspicion. By the time we reached my elbow, I still wasn’t ready so I decided to expand it to my wrist. It took half a dozen sessions with Casper working on my sleeve before I was willing to show him my back—and be comfortable enough to let him tattoo over the paths that held so much pain. Casper likes to give me grief for being quiet, but he doesn’t know what it took for me to get here. He doesn’t realize he’s the first man I’ve trusted enough to touch me in three years.

“I sketched out a few things, but this was my first and the one I keep going back to. Moths are creatures of metamorphosis and growth. They are messengers between worlds. They aren’t performative like butterflies. They’re quiet and soft. They know darkness and aren’t afraid of it, because even though they live in the shadows, they continue to fly toward the light. This is a way to honor that part of you, without romanticizing it.”

My eyes cling to the imagery, tracing every line, every shadow, every impossible little detail until the rest of reality quiets around me. The ache in my chest softens and is replaced by something warm and steady. Peace settles like a hand over my heart. My throat bobs. It’s not just beautiful, it has depth and truth. Casper nailed it, and I realize there’s more depth and understanding to him than meets the eye.

I love it.

“If you’re not feeling this one, I have a couple other ideas⁠—”

“No. It’s perfect.” I glance up at him.

The corner of his mouth tilts up and he levels his gaze with me. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” I reply. “Thank you.”

“Well, that makes it easy. I’m going to get the stencil sheets printed and I’ll be back. If you’re ready to change, feel free to do so. You can rotate the hoodie so the zipper goes up your back.”

I’m still nervous about strangers seeing the scars. Nobody knows about them except for my healthcare providers and therapist. And after my last initial consultation, Casper. When he did my sleeve, sometimes the artists would stop by and check the progress, but I don’t want anyone to look at this one.

“Um . . . the scars on my back⁠—”

“There will be a privacy screen up the entire time.” It’s like he can read my mind. My shoulders relax as he continues. “I promise you, no one walks in here.”

“Okay.” I nod.

After he leaves, I head to the restroom to change and glance over my shoulder at my reflection one last time.

The doorway of his station has a viewing barrier beside it when I return. Casper is still making the stencils. I examine his space. Other work areas are filled with artwork and miscellaneous items that show off their personality, or perhaps things that inspire them while drawing.

Not Casper. How have I never noticed how sparse it is? Kind of odd.

When he returns, I scoop my hair into a ponytail, knotting it so it stays out of the way. He sets the various sections of the stencil on the countertop and drags out a separate stool with a padded area for me to lean forward on. Kind of like sitting backward in a chair, but more comfortable.

Casper ensures the privacy screen is up and turns to me. “Do I have your permission to touch you?”

He asks every time and I appreciate it.

“Yes.”

He slowly unzips the hooded sweatshirt on my back, and the act feels more intimate than it is. The initial touch of his gloved hand is clinical, respectful, but I still startle, unused to feeling human contact on my back. I swallow the lump in my throat.

We go through the lengthy prep stage; he takes extra care with the razor over the bumpy areas of my scar. His touch is intentional and practiced but somehow softer than what I previously experienced with him on my sleeve.

Laying the stencil is very time-consuming since it’s a cover-up. The scale and placement has to be exact in order for the ink to camouflage the raised flesh. It takes about an hour and a half to get it just right, and I appreciate Casper’s dedication with this step; he knows how critical it is.

He takes a photo and squats next to my chair, peeling off his gloves and showing me the final product. My back is a tapestry of indigo stencil ink.

“Damn,” I admire. “Impressive.”