7. Katerina #2
I sip the seltzer, letting the fizz crackle on my tongue. I glance around the group. Everyone’s so content to be here, to let something permanent happen spontaneously. My usual instincts say That’s insane, but… it doesn’t feel insane. Not with Bex’s calm focus and Nico’s reassuring presence.
Occasionally, I meet Nico’s eye. They keep giving me a half-smile, probably sensing I’m the only holdout. But they don’t push, which weirdly makes me even more aware that I’m standing outside the circle.
I watch Bex again, now inking a small fleur-de-lis on Casey’s shoulder.
Same pattern, same machine hum, same strong posture.
She braces Casey’s skin with one hand, controlling the surface tension.
Her brow furrows in concentration, and that is, my breath catches, quietly compelling.
She has a scuff on her wrist from something, maybe a minor scratch.
She has a silver ring on her index finger, removed now so she can glove up more easily, but it’s resting on the tray.
That ring glints under the overhead lamp.
The shape is half tarnished, half polished, like she’s worn it for years.
Her eyes lift for a second, skimming the room, and land on me. She sees me studying her, I think. My heart jumps. She doesn’t say anything, simply taps the pedal, resumes the outline. The machine’s buzz intensifies.
I swallow, stepping around some equipment that’s stacked near the wall, pretending I was just rearranging something. Not at all fixated. Not at all.
Time passes in a haze of buzzing needle, laughter, camera clicks.
Sofia finishes, beaming at her new ink on her forearm.
She waves it around proudly. Skye steels herself, taking the chair at Nico’s station.
Lexi eggs her on, offering moral support.
In the corner, Bex is finishing up Casey’s linework.
Everyone cycles through. Everyone except me.
At one point, Nico glances my way. “You sure you want to stay on the sidelines, Cook?” they ask, calling me the wrong name just to see if I’ll correct them. Their grin says they’re kidding.
“It’s Kit,” I say, playing along. “And yes. Positive. But thank you.”
They shrug, an easy motion, and pivot back to Skye. The thing is, they don’t pry, which is probably how Bex learned not to pry either. They both seem adept at reading the difference between no and maybe.
I try to quell the unfamiliar twist in my chest. Why do I feel… left out? I declared no multiple times. I should be relieved no one’s pushing me. But a small voice is whispering that maybe I want them to push.
My eyes shift, unbidden, to Bex. She’s leaning close to Casey, finishing the final passes of shading.
The hum of the needle slows. She sets the machine aside, wipes gently, checks the lines.
Then she carefully applies ointment and a bandage, giving quiet instructions about aftercare.
Casey thanks her, massaging her own shoulder.
Bex rubs the back of her neck, stretching.
Nico and Skye finish at roughly the same time. Lexi squeals, congratulating Skye for not fainting. The front of the shop bursts into applause. Everyone’s done. The flurry of shared triumph is nearly tangible, like they’ve all completed a small mission.
So the group migrates away from the chairs, forming a happy huddle by the front counter.
Nico rummages for a cheap bottle of wine they have stashed, apparently for celebratory reasons.
The cork pops. Sofia laughs. Everyone’s talking at once.
I hear phrases like “it hurt but not too badly” and “this is a keepsake of New Orleans.” The energy brims.
I remain near the station, picking at the label of my half-finished seltzer can.
Bex is methodically swabbing her tools, discarding used needles in a sharps container, wiping down surfaces with an antiseptic cloth.
She’s not swaying or joking right now. She’s simply finishing up her professional routine.
Just her and the mild hum of the overhead fan.
In the corner, Casey’s camera flash flares as she tries to capture Nico’s dramatic retelling of a ferret-portrait fiasco.
The volume is all at the front, but Bex’s corner feels quieter, self-contained.
I step closer, drawn by an impulse I can’t name.
She’s clearing the station, lines of antiseptic wipes stacked neatly, the motion purposeful.
She’s done this a thousand times. I observe the small details pinned above her workspace: flash art scraps, a photo of Bex and Nico hugging in front of a different shop, a row of color-coded ink stubs.
It reminds me of how I color-code my own planner.
The shared inclination for order is unexpected.
She looks up at me, a little startled, but not displeased. “Hey,” she says, voice low. “Everything good over there?” She jerks her chin at the rowdy group.
I nod. “They’re celebrating.” My tone is too quiet.
She sets down a wipe. “Yeah, they deserve it. That was a lot of first tattoos.”
I rest my hand on the edge of the workbench, noticing how my pulse picks up from being so close.
There’s only about a foot of space between us.
I can see the precise lines of bright ink on her own arms: swirling shapes, flowers, subtle geometric edges.
My imagination leaps, unasked, to the possibility of her inking something on me.
I reclassify that as fleeting curiosity. Just idle speculation.
Bex follows my gaze to the pinned sketches on the wall. It’s a small variety of references: a stylized bird, a dancing skeleton, someone’s initial in swirling script. She clears her throat. “You can look at them, you know. I don’t mind.”
I take a half-step forward, scanning the collage of flash.
I can’t decipher the swirl in my stomach, but I do notice how the tension in my shoulders returns the moment I consider letting any of this be about me.
The safer route is to watch from the sidelines, like I said.
So I do. But my gaze lingers on a small camera design pinned near the top, a vintage device with a lens and some subtle shading.
It’s pinned halfway behind a bigger piece, so I only see part of the shape. My heart stutters.
“Everything okay?” Bex asks calmly.
I swallow. “Yeah, just… thinking.”
She nods, no pressure behind her eyes. This is worse than if she teased me. Because I can feel the unspoken invitation. Her presence is quiet, not demanding. A beat passes.
Nico’s laugh explodes from the front of the shop, something about a ferret’s eyes being uneven. Everyone roars. Bex and I remain in our pocket of hush. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt warmer, despite the AC whirring overhead.
Then, from behind me, Nico calls out, “So, Ms. Binder, you changed your mind yet?” They’re leaning in the doorway, wine bottle in hand, smirking like they already know the answer.
I press my lips together. “No. I’m good.”
“Sure thing,” Nico replies, shrugging. “At least you got to see your friends get theirs.” Then they vanish back into the ring of the ongoing story.
My eyes slide back to Bex. She’s not taunting me.
In fact, she’s not saying anything. She just lowers her gaze to the station she’s wiping, focusing on swirling away stray bits of ink.
For a second, I want her to push me, to say something like “Come on, Kit, live a little.” But she doesn’t. And that’s somehow more persuasive.
Because if she asked me directly, I’d brace. I’d remind her I can’t do impulsive. But she’s letting me stand here with my internal confusion and figure it out for myself.
It’s infuriating. It’s… also the reason I can’t stop staring at her hands.
She sets aside the last wipe, tugs off her gloves, tosses them in a bin.
Then she flexes her fingers, rolling her neck from side to side.
It’s a small after-work ritual, probably, but I watch like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
She glances up, catches me checking her posture. She arches a brow in question, but still says nothing. My face heats.
“I’ll… go see how Skye’s doing,” I mumble, retreating before I accidentally do something irreversible, like ask Bex to design me a piece of art. Because that’s obviously a bad idea. Right?