“I love you, Lo.”
“Love you too.”
The call ends. I drop the phone and let my head fall back against the couch. I close my eyes and see him again—asleep,peaceful, mine for a few stolen hours. The ache blooms fresh behind my ribs, sharp and familiar. I let it sit there. Let it build a new scar next to the old one.
It was worth it.
The bell above the door jingles at 9:02 a.m. I flip on the neon OPEN sign and breathe in the familiar mix of stencil paper, green soap, and the faint vanilla from the diffuser Isla insisted the place needed to feel “less like a dungeon.” My shop is called Mark & Muse Ink—a narrow storefront tucked into the East Village. Exposed brick on the side walls catches the morning light. The entire back wall is painted matte black, a deep velvet canvas I spent three sleepless weekends covering with vintage-inspired flowers. Oversized peonies and wild roses in soft ivory, muted gold, and varied shades of pink and blue, hand-painted with fine brushes so the petals would look like they’re blooming right out of the darkness. Delicate green leaves and vines curl between them, fading into shadow at the edges. It’s the first thing clients see when they walk inside. The effect is bold, elegant, and a little haunting. The tagline etched in gold script on the front window readsMarked with intention.
The space stays decluttered and classy on purpose. No chaotic flash sheets taped everywhere, no overflowing shelves. Just clean black stations, polished wood counters, and a low bookshelf along one brick wall holding a few leather-bound sketchbooks—my private collection of designs, the ones I pour hours into when the shop’s closed.
A small Bluetooth speaker sits on the shelf behind the front counter, playing low indie tracks. When I set up the business streaming service, I made sure we could legally playsad girl songs all day long. Right now it’s Phoebe Bridgers’ voice, soft and aching, singing “Moon Song.”
I’m already set up for back-to-backs. A fine-line floral sleeve at ten, a minimalist wave on a forearm at eleven thirty, a cover-up at one, then a couple more until close. Everything quiets when I’m working, so I can’t wait to get started. It’s exactly what I need.
Briar—my piercer, chaos coordinator, and the light to my dark—leans in the doorway between stations, studying me. She’s got bubblegum-pink hair this month and a septum ring that glints when she tilts her head. “You okay, Lo? Was it a stressful weekend at home?”
“I’m fine,” I say, prepping my station without looking up. “Just didn’t sleep much while I was there.”
She holds up her hand and moves to her station, pulling out her makeup bag. “Here, let me just touch you up.” She pulls out her concealer and dabs some under my eyes. “There. That’s a little better.” She bites her lip and holds up a brighter lipstick.
I sigh and put some on.
Juni, my apprentice who does killer blackwork, pops her head around the corner. She’s twenty-three, with wide eyes and pastel tattoos peeking from her sleeves.
“What happened?” she asks, looking between me and Briar. She makes a face. “You’re not sad about Patrick, right, Lola?” Her eyes go wider. “Sorry. It’s just…we’re glad to be rid of him,right?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Trust me. I’m not sad about Patrick. I…saw an ex while I was home, and it was…it’s nothing,” I mutter. “Let’s just get through the day.”
Briar exchanges a look with Juni. “Okay. We’re here, if you need us. You look like you’ve been crying alot. What can we do to cheer you up?”
“I’m already feeling a little better,” I say, forcing a half-smile. “Can you go greet the floral girl? I think she’s early.”
They back off, but I feel their eyes on me all afternoon. The music shifts—Anaïs Mitchell’s voice raw and close on “Your Fonder Heart,” and I have to skip the song fast because that one makes me cry even on a good day.
I ink the floral sleeve with mechanical precision. The client chats, while I nod, smile, and answer on autopilot, and the track fades into “Too Sweet” by Hozier. It’s the same with the next few clients—I get lost in the work and the music. But every time the machine stops, my thoughts get way too loud.
By a quarter to seven, the shop is dim, and the neon OPEN sign is flipped off. Briar and Juni have clocked out, promising to text me later. The speaker is still on low—“Sofia” by Clairo. Oh man, she’s getting to me too. I’m wiping down my station, along with my running eyes, when the bell jingles again.
I glance up, expecting a walk-in emergency, but it’s Patrick.
He smiles that slow, expectant smile, and my stomach turns. I quickly turn and dry my tears.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says softly. “Missed you.”
“What are you doing in town?”
“I wanted to see you. And you’re ignoring my calls, so I thought I’d come to you.”
“We’re closed.”
“Lola, come on.” He closes the door behind him and locks it with a casual flick. “I just want to talk. And maybe get a little ink. Something to remember us by.”
“There is no ‘us.’” My voice is low and steady. I’m in no mood to deal with him right now. “Take the hint and leave.”
He steps closer, hands up. “I know I messed up, baby. Iwas scared of losing you, so I tried to control things. It was stupid. But I’ve learned my lesson. Please. Just talk to me.”
I shake my head. “I’m tired and done for the day. I’m leaving now. I don’t want to talk.”
