8. Bex
Chapter eight
Bex
I’m wrapping a fresh fleur-de-lis on Skye’s forearm when I realize I’ve lost track of time.
The entire night has collapsed into a series of whirring needles, quick outlines, softened laughter, and the hum of that overhead lamp.
My station is cluttered with used wipes, ink caps, gloves I’ve gone through. It’s a satisfying kind of mess.
Nico stands up front, entertaining half the bridal party with a story about a client who once requested a full portrait of their ferret, complete with regal uniform.
Sofia is perched beside them, still beaming at the tiny fleur-de-lis on her own arm.
Lexi shows off her ankle. Casey’s scrolling through photos to show them the progress shots.
Skye thanks me quietly for the wrapping, then makes her way to join the others.
I exhale, leaning back on my stool. I’m done.
Everyone’s got their matching tattoo except Kit.
I glance around, tidying my station in the post-session lull.
The coil machine is silent, the cords neatly looped.
My cleaning supplies are scattered, so I begin tossing gloves in the trash, dropping needles in the sharps container.
The ache in my shoulders is the good kind, like I’ve done something tangible.
Nico’s voice spikes in laughter. The front half of the building feels loud and celebratory. I sit here alone, calm, methodical. It’s the way I always feel after ink sessions, some combination of relief and satisfaction. That, and a flicker of… anticipation, though I’m not sure why.
When I look up, I see Kit. She’s closer than before.
She’s standing near my station, not quite in it, scanning the sketches tacked on the wall: geometric shapes, some swirling floral pieces, the occasional skeleton cameo.
I watch her side profile. Her posture is still elegant, but her expression is unguarded.
She’s not performing composure so much as genuinely trying to parse the pieces in front of her.
There’s that flicker in my chest again.
She senses me looking, turns my way. I rest my hand on a half-wiped tray. “You see anything that grabs your attention?” I ask softly, no big flourish.
Her lips part. She hesitates, sets them together again. “I, um…” She exhales. “I’ve been telling you all night I’m not getting anything.”
I keep my voice even. “I know.”
She doesn’t leave, though. She returns her attention to the designs.
Her gaze trails up, where I have pinned a cluster of older sketches.
I see her linger on one of a small vintage film camera, a near-silhouette drawn with minimal lines.
I pinned it months ago, half as a reference for a client, half because I liked the shape.
After a second, I risk a quiet question. “Was there ever anything… you thought about getting?”
Kit is quiet for what feels like a full minute. The chatter from the front presses in, then recedes. She lifts her chin. “A small camera,” she admits, so softly I almost miss it. “Vintage. Sort of like that one.” She points.
The words land between us heavily. I can see she’s bracing for some reaction. Maybe a tease, maybe dismissal. But I offer neither.
I wait. She swallows. “I used to tell myself I’d get one if I actually became a filmmaker. But I didn’t.”
I process that. I feel the weight of her regret, unspoken but right there. “Why a camera?”
She presses her lips together. “Because… freshman year of college, I imagined living behind a lens. Telling people’s real stories, shining a light on things that get overlooked.
I was going to do documentary film. But then I switched to something more practical.
So it never happened.” Her tone is level, but I hear the undercurrent.
It’s disappointment, maybe even heartbreak.
I nod. “But you still think about it.”
A pause. She exhales, acknowledging. “I guess so.”
I glance at that pinned drawing. “You want me to redraw it for you?” I ask, keeping my tone as casual as if I’m offering a glass of water or a seat. No drama. Just an option.
Her eyes lift to me, wide. She’s not outraged. She’s… uncertain. “That’s… It’s a big decision.”
I shrug lightly. “Sure, it’s permanent. But it’s also not the end of the world. If you want it, you can have it. If you don’t, no big deal.”
She hesitates, heart in her throat. I can practically see it.
Then, unexpectedly, Nico materializes at her side.
They’re carrying a half-empty wine bottle, grin on their face, but the moment they see Kit’s expression, they dial it back.
Rather than chattering, Nico just slides a rolling stool toward her.
They do it wordlessly, then vanish back to the others.
Kit stares at the stool. I can hear her breathing. Then, slowly, she sets her purse on the floor and sits down.
I swallow. My pulse picks up. I shift, pulling a fresh sheet of transfer paper from a drawer. My pencil’s on the tray. I grab it, roll it between my fingers. She’s perched now, spine straight but tense, glancing between me and the paper.
“Want me to sketch a new version?” I ask quietly.
She nods, once.
I press the paper to a clipboard and start drawing.
I outline the shape of a vintage camera: a small rectangle for the body, a circle for the lens, a subtle nod to old-school film reels.
I keep it minimal, clean. Fine lines. No flourish.
A camera that suggests a lens that’s always open to possibility.
My heart hammers. I try not to overthink my lines.
Kit’s quiet the whole time. The laughter and animated chatter from up front dims, as if people sense something real is happening here. Or maybe it’s just me, hyper-focused on the hush.
After about eight minutes, I lift the pencil, blow off an eraser smudge, and offer the paper. “What do you think?”
Kit takes it slowly. My breath snags in my chest as I watch her face. The design is small, maybe an inch and a half across, done in a single thin outline with one accent line for the lens. She stares longer than I expect. Then she nods, sets the paper down. “Okay.”
One word. But it feels like she just signed a contract.
I keep my voice neutral. “Are you sure?”
She closes her eyes briefly, opens them again. “Yes.”
I gesture to the adjustable chair. “We can do it there. Or if you’d rather sit on the stool, whatever’s comfortable.”
She stands, moves to the chair, and sits. I step closer, pulling on a new pair of gloves. My heart is pounding too fast. “Where do you want it?” I ask.
Kit inhales, glancing at her arms, then at me. “Inside my left wrist,” she finally says. She holds the underside of that wrist up. “So it’s visible if I want it to be, and hidden if I… well, if I need to hide it.”
I nod. “That’s a good spot. Let’s do it.”
The conversation around us hushes. If I peek up, I see Nico in the distance, half-watching. Sofia is shushing Lexi, maybe out of courtesy. Even Casey has lowered her camera, though I know she’s itching to capture the moment.
I prep the stencil quickly, transferring the sketch onto clear tracing, then gently press it onto Kit’s skin. She tenses a little but doesn’t pull away. I peel it back, leaving a faint purple outline of the camera. “Check the placement,” I say, turning her wrist so she can see it.
She gazes at it for a lingering second. “Yes. That’s right.”
My palms feel damp, which is absurd because I’ve done hundreds of tattoos. But there’s something about the small tremor in Kit’s exhale that makes my chest feel tight.
I pick up the machine, choose a fine liner needle, drop fresh black ink into a cap. The hum that starts up is faint, but it resonates through my fingertips. I place my free hand lightly on Kit’s wrist, steadying her. The heat of her skin flares against my glove.
“Ready?” I ask. My voice comes out softer than usual.
She nods. She’s looking directly into my face, not at her wrist. A short sentence flickers through my mind: She trusts me. Enough to hold still, to let me mark her.
I lower the needle, touching it to her skin. She flinches the tiniest bit, then exhales, eyes still on me. I begin the outline.
Small strokes. Careful pressure. The hum is constant. I can sense her heartbeat in the tension of her arm. My own heart thuds in my chest. I keep the line steady, pulling the curve of the lens. Wipe away excess ink. She tenses again, but not out of fear. More like uncontainable adrenaline.
I quell my own adrenaline, focusing on each line. It’s a crisp, minimal design, but every stroke matters. My world is reduced to the tip of that needle, the curve of her wrist, the anchor of my hand over her forearm.
I sense her watching me more than she’s watching the ink. Some part of me wants to meet her gaze. But if I glance up, I might lose that careful line. So I breathe, keep going, let the hum fill my ears.
A few minutes pass like that, an eternity and a blink at once. I finish the last stroke, lift the needle, switch the machine off. The silence that follows is thick. I set down the machine, wipe the fresh lines gently. A perfect little camera, so simple, so honest.
Kit’s breathing is uneven. I wrap the area with a thin protective bandage, but before I do, I let her see it. She tilts her wrist, eyes flicking from the design to me. My hand is still steadying her arm. We’re close.
“It suits you,” I say quietly, hearing my own voice tremble a fraction.
Her eyes flick back to the tattoo. Her mouth opens as if she might say something, but no sound emerges. Finally, she swallows and just nods, blinking quickly. I hold her wrist a second longer than necessary, then realize what I’m doing and release her gently. She sets her hand in her lap.
The hush breaks as Nico steps forward with a grin, scanning the new design. “Looks clean,” they say, nodding at me. They give Kit a soft, congratulatory smile. “Well done, first-timer. Bet you never saw this coming yesterday.”
Kit just shakes her head, still not speaking. Something about her expression tells me she’s overwhelmed in a way she didn’t anticipate. I can almost see the words swirling behind her eyes: She actually did it.
Sofia, Lexi, and Casey converge, leaning in to see. Skye hovers in the background with a thoughtful look. The chatter revs up again: some exclamations, a few jokes about Kit being the last convert, celebratory teasing. Kit manages a small laugh, but it doesn’t hide the sincerity in her eyes.
I break away to clean my station one last time.
My hands tremble slightly as I remove my gloves.
This shouldn’t feel so significant. But it does.
Maybe because I know how big a leap it is for someone like Kit to deviate from the plan.
In some odd way, I’m proud of her. And that unsettles me, because it implies a closeness I haven’t been prepared to claim.
The group is swirling in congratulatory chaos, but I’m aware that Kit’s gaze keeps drifting toward me. Not in a pleading way, just… in acknowledgment. I sense her presence, even as I swipe the leftover ink caps and toss them, sterilize the clamp, and bag the used needle.
When I finally turn around, her eyes dart down, as if she wasn’t staring. She lifts her newly wrapped wrist, pressing the bandage carefully. For a second, the two of us share a look. I can’t read all of it, but it’s thick with possibility.
Lexi, in typical form, breaks the moment by slinging her arm around Kit’s shoulders and proclaiming, “We are unstoppable! Nico, please tell me there’s more of that wine. We are celebrating right here.”
Kit glances at Lexi, then at me, then back at Lexi, trying to reorient. “Sure,” she says, voice steady but quiet.
Nico reappears, collects any final payments, and we pass around a tip jar that Lexi overfills.
Then they hold up the wine bottle in answer to Lexi’s demand, and the front of the shop bursts back into conversation.
They’re all praising the designs, the experience, the memory. Nobody so much as looks at the door.
I drift closer to Kit, guiding her aside so we can talk without the entire group. “You doing okay?” I murmur, meeting her eyes.
She nods. Her cheeks are warm. “I’m fine. Just… I can’t believe I did that.”
I swallow. The shop’s overhead lamp catches the new bandage on her wrist. The camera shape is hidden for now, but I know exactly where it is, a slim design that’ll remind her of something she once dreamed. “You did great. And… it looks good on you,” I add, repeating myself in a gentler tone.
She inhales, lips parted. “Thank you.” Then her gaze flicks away, like she’s not sure how to handle how intense this feels.
We stand there, half an arm’s length apart, neither of us stepping away. The others are bustling about with final goodbyes, but the air between me and Kit is thick as honey. For a crazy second, I think she might reach out and touch my arm. But she doesn’t.
She just meets my eyes again, and in hers I read something new. Quiet gratitude, maybe, or acceptance. Some sort of acknowledgment that what just happened is bigger than a little line art.
At last, Nico calls us to the front, and we break from our bubble. The group re-forms around the counter, wine sloshing into whatever cups Nico could find, Casey filming random bits for Sofia’s keepsake wedding montage. My mind’s swirling with the memory of the needle’s hum, Kit’s wrist in my hand.
I end up beside Kit at the edge of it all. She’s hugging her purse to her side, left wrist angled outward as if she’s both protecting it and unconsciously wanting it to breathe.
She glances at me sideways. “Does it hurt more later?” she asks lightly.
I shrug. “A bit, maybe sore like a sunburn. Keep it clean, follow the aftercare. You’ll be fine.”
She nods. “I will.” Then she glances at her bandage, almost smiling.
And that’s when I realize I’ve never seen her smile quite like that. It’s small, thoughtful, slightly shy. Like she’s letting herself want something. Like she’s letting herself be a person with a dream that might still exist.
Somewhere behind us, Lexi is negotiating with Nico about the playlist and losing.
Skye is chiming in, Sofia’s deep in conversation with Casey.
Everyone’s voices swirl through the shop, and none of it touches this small pocket where Kit is standing next to me, wearing something I made for her under a strip of bandage.
In my head, I keep replaying how it felt to hold her arm, angle her wrist, and make a mark just for her.
“It suits you,” I said, and I meant it.
Maybe, in a way, it suits me too. This moment of forging something real with her. And I’m not sure what that means yet, but I feel a quiet rush in my veins that says I want more.