The sleeve of her cardigan has ridden up slightly, revealing the edge of the tattoo on her wrist.
“I like your tattoo,” I say, nodding toward it.
She glances down, then pulls the sleeve up to show me the whole thing. The phoenix. The wings spread over her skin, the head proud, the ink sharp and vibrant.
“Yeah. I got it a few months ago. Before I moved here.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say honestly. “The detail is amazing.”
“Thanks. It’s... it’s to symbolize starting over.” She traces the outline of the wing with her thumb. “Rising from the ashes, all that. Cheesy, maybe.”
“Not cheesy,” I say firmly. “It fits you.”
She looks up at me, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “What about you? I’ve seen the ink, but I’ve never asked what it all means. You’re basically a walking storybook.”
I grin, flexing my left arm. “This one’s the sea.”
I tell her about the lighthouse on my shoulder—guidance, safety, my need to protect the people I love. I explain the waves crashing around it, the anemones and starfish hidden in the blue and gray ink.
I show her the vintage compass on my inner forearm, the needle pointing forward, surrounded by nautical charts of the Oregon coast.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, leaning in to look closer.
“This one’s the land,” I say, offering my right arm.
I describe the herbs—rosemary, thyme, sage—essential to my work. Then I show her the five interlocking rings around my bicep.
“One for each of us,” I explain. “Sean, Fiona, Connor, Moira, and me. We’re a mess, but we’re a unit.”
She smiles, her eyes soft. “I like that.”
“And the oak,” I say, turning my forearm so she can see the branch wrapping around my skin. “It represents strength and endurance.”
“You have a lot of symbols for strength,” she observes quietly.
“You need it in this life.”
I hesitate for a second, then pull the collar of my T-shirt down slightly, just enough to show her the driftwood tree growing over my heart. The gnarled roots, the twisted branches.
“And here?” she asks, her eyes catching the specific spot directly over my heart. In the center of the trunk, there’s a distinct shape. A blank space in the shape of a delicate heart.
“That,” I say, my voice dropping a notch. “That’s reserved.”
She looks up at me, her breath hitching. “For what?”
“For a mate,” I admit. It’s not something I tell just anyone. In fact, I haven’t said it out loud in years. But with her, it feels natural. “I don’t know if I believe in that stuff, the fairy-tale romance. But if I ever find someone... I want to mark it there. Make it real.”
She stares at me, her face turning a deep, lovely red. She looks away, focusing intensely on her coffee cup. “Oh. That’s... that’s really romantic, Fallon.”
I laugh, the sound booming in the quiet café. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
We finish our coffee and donuts, the conversation shifting to lighter things—Maisie’s school, the terrible movie selection on TV, the weather.
I watch her relax, the tension in her shoulders finally loosening. The haunted look in her eyes fades, replaced by a soft warmth that makes my chest ache.
“Ready to head back?” I ask eventually.
