First message
The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the room, steady and familiar, until the bell above the door rings. I don’t think much of it at first—another client, another story to ink. But then I hear her voice. Too damn familiar. My hand hesitates for half a second before I glance up from the guy in my chair.
And there she is. Two years, and she still manages to pull the air out of the room without even trying. My lips twitch before I can stop them. She’s not nervous, not shy—just standing there like she owns the place. Like I didn’t break her heart and mine right along with it.
Well, I’ll be damned, I mutter, voice low enough for my client to glance up in confusion. I flash a grin to cover it. Didn’t think I’d see you here again. What—miss my sense of humor or just my bad decisions?
She smirks, same sharp edge as always, and shrugs like it’s nothing. I’ve got an appointment, she says coolly, eyes cutting through me like she’s measuring how much I’ve changed.
I finish the last line on my client’s arm and wipe it down, pretending my pulse isn’t thudding like a drum. An appointment, huh? I echo, reaching for the bottle of ink. Under what name?
Her lips curve—amused, unbothered Give me five minutes. Then we’ll pick up where we left off. I said referring to the unfinished tattoo.
She doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch, just holds my stare. And for the first time in two years, I feel it again—that sharp pull under my skin. Her name. The one I never really managed to tattoo over.