“I try.”
He goes quiet for a beat.
Then, bluntly, “You in?”
I tap my thumb once against the counter.
The easy answer would be yes.
Because suddenly the idea of marking something into skin feels less like a whim and more like an attempt to pin down this restless, unsettled energy before it gets ideas of its own.
But wanting another tattoo and knowing what belongs under your skin are not the same thing.
And right now I have no idea what this is.
Only that it matters more than it should.
I exhale slowly.
“Book me in,” I say.
“For what?”
“I’ll work it out.”
“I’ll text you the time. Try not to make any catastrophic life choices before I’m back.”
“No promises.”
“Obviously.”
The linegoes dead.
I stare at my phone for a second, then at the coffees being set on the counter.
I have agreed to a tattoo I have not designed because something in me already wants to mark this morning as different.
Which feels sane.
By recent standards.
I collect the tray and head back towards the house.
Chapter 10
Philip
Mark’s kitchen, for allits polished surfaces and offensively expensive air fryer, contains remarkably little food.
Tea.
Pasta.
Protein bars.
A tin of beans and a mini collection of spices and condiments.
That appears to be the extent of his commitment to sustenance.
