Finley presses the stencil against my skin.
“You know,” he says mildly, “the speed of that answer suggests there may be additional context.”
“Shocking,” Callum murmurs.
Finley peels the stencil back and checks the transfer.
“Whitstable coordinates,” he says. “Hamster paw print. Tiny memorial to a deeply specific weekend.”
“It doesn’t need a committee review.”
“No,” Callum agrees. “Because the committee has already reached its conclusion.”
I glance at him. “Have you?”
“Yes.”
Finley wheels his stool closer and switches on the machine. The familiar buzz fills the room.
“This,” Callum says, folding his arms, “is not a hamster tattoo.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No,” Finley says, adjusting my arm, “it’s a something-happened-here-and-I’m-pretending-I-can-reduce-it-to-a-rodent tattoo.”
I let my head fall back against the chair.
“Thanks for the armchair psychology.”
The first line bites into skin.
Sharp enough that I focus on that instead of the two men dissecting my life choices.
For a minute there is only the buzz of the machine, traffic outside, someone shouting near the chicken shop.
Then Callum says, too casually, “You still talking to him?”
I know exactly who he means.
“Sometimes.”
Finley makes a low noise that sounds suspiciously like bullshit.
Callum does not let it go.
“How sometimes?”
I stare at the ceiling.
There is no version of this answer that sounds detached.
“Most days.”
Silence.
Callum and Finley exchange a look.
A brief one.
