Chapter 28
Lisa
The street outside the venue is louder than it should be for how late it already is.
Still, Nashville doesn’t seem interested in quiet the way most cities are after midnight.
The music spilling out of every open doorway feels less like background noise and more like part of the night itself, like the entire place exists just to keep moments like this one from ending too quickly.
“I don’t want tonight to be over yet,” I say as we step onto the sidewalk together, my voice still slightly hoarse from singing louder than I meant to for most of the concert.
“Good,” Blake says easily. “Because it’s not.”
“That’s confident,” I reply.
We walk slowly without deciding where we’re going, which feels exactly right somehow, because the energy from the concert is still sitting somewhere inside my chest. I’m not ready to let it settle yet.
I’m not ready to go back to the quiet of the hotel room and pretend this night already belongs in memory instead of the present.
Every street feels alive.
Every window glows.
Each passing group of strangers sounds like they’re laughing louder than should be allowed at this hour.
“This city feels crazy,” I say after a minute.
“Crazy good or crazy bad?” Blake asks.
“Crazy like someone built it specifically so people could make impulsive decisions.”
“That sounds like a recommendation,” he replies.
“It might be.”
We pass three bars, two souvenir shops, and a place selling cowboy hats before I see it.
It isn’t large.
It isn’t flashy.
Just a narrow storefront with warm light inside and a small neon sign in the window shaped like a needle and a rose.
I stop walking.
Blake notices immediately.
“What?” he asks.
“That,” I say, pointing.
He follows my gaze. Then looks back at me. Then back at the sign again.
“You’ve been talking about that for months,” he says slowly.
“I know. This is it. It has to happen.”
The tattoo shop looks exactly the way tattoo shops always do in my imagination, cleaner than expected, quieter than the street outside, filled with framed artwork that somehow makes the walls feel less like decoration and more like history, and the moment we step inside, the air changes again, softer and steadier than the noise we left behind.
“Hi,” the artist behind the counter says. “Walk-in?”
I look at Blake.
He looks at me.
“Yes,” I say.
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly once we sit down with the design books spread between us on the counter.
“No,” I admit.
“That’s usually a sign not to do something permanent.”
“It’s usually a sign to do something important,” I correct.
He studies my face carefully.
“You’ve wanted this for a long time.”
“I have.”
The rose design feels obvious the second I see it.
Simple. Clean. Not dramatic. Just a single stem with one bloom opening slightly to the side instead of straight forward, like it’s turning toward something instead of presenting itself.
“That one,” I say.
Blake leans closer to look.
“Why a rose?” he asks.
I think about it for a moment before answering.
“Because it’s not perfect,” I say finally. “But it grows anyway.”
The artist prints the stencil while explaining placement options. I barely hear because suddenly the decision feels real in a way it didn’t when it was only an idea I mentioned during late-night conversations, road trips, or quiet evenings sitting on the couch with Blake’s arm around my shoulders.
“Where?” Blake asks softly.
“Here,” I say, touching the outside of my arm just above my elbow.
Visible. Intentional. Mine.
When the stencil touches my skin for the first time, something shifts inside me that I don’t fully understand yet, something steady and quiet and certain in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with choosing something permanent for myself without asking anyone else what they think first.
“You nervous?” Blake asks.
“Yes.”
“Want me to hold your hand?”
“Yes.”
He does. Immediately. And somehow that makes everything easier.
The needle doesn’t hurt the way I expected it to.
Not exactly.
It’s sharp, yes, but steady, predictable, and almost grounding once I get used to the rhythm of it moving across my skin. The longer it continues, the more it feels like something I’m claiming instead of it happening to me.
“You’re doing great,” Blake says quietly beside me.
“I’m trying not to move.”
“You’re succeeding.”
“I’m heroic.”
“You are extremely heroic.”
Halfway through the outline, I realize I’m smiling.
Not because it doesn’t hurt.
Because it matters.
Because this is the first permanent decision I’ve made in a long time that doesn’t feel connected to expectations or pressure or anyone else’s version of who I’m supposed to be.
“Why now?” Blake asks gently.
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth takes a second to settle into words.
“Because I finally feel like I’m choosing my life instead of reacting to it,” I say.
His hand tightens around mine slightly.
“I like that answer,” he says.
“I like you,” I reply.
He laughs softly.
“That’s becoming a theme.”
“It’s a good theme.”
When the artist finishes and wipes the last line clean, I look down at my arm and for a moment I don’t recognize what I’m seeing, not because it looks unfamiliar but because it looks like something that was always supposed to be there and just wasn’t until now.
The rose is small. Elegant. Alive.
“You did it,” Blake says.
“I did,” I answer quietly.
Outside again, the night feels different than it did before we went inside the shop, like something invisible shifted while we were gone and left the world slightly clearer when we stepped back into it.
“How does it feel?” he asks.
“Like I made a decision I can’t undo,” I say.
“Do you want to undo it?”
“No,” I answer immediately.
“Good.”
He reaches for my arm carefully, not touching the fresh ink but tracing the air just beside it like he already understands it means something important even if I haven’t explained it all, yet.
“It suits you,” he says.
“It does?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because it looks like something that was waiting for you,” he replies.
We start walking again without deciding where we’re going.
Back toward the hotel. Back toward whatever comes next. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m carrying anything unfinished behind me anymore.
By the time we step back into the hotel room, the city is still glowing outside the windows like Nashville itself isn’t ready to sleep yet, but the moment the door closes behind us something changes in the quiet between us, something softer and heavier at the same time, like the entire night finally catches up with us all at once now that there’s nowhere else we have to be.
Neither of us reaches for the lights.
The room stays lit only by the gold spill of streetlamps through the curtains and the faint reflections of passing headlights sliding slowly across the walls, and somehow that feels right, like turning on the overhead light would interrupt something that already started long before we made it back upstairs.
Blake doesn’t let go of my hand. He hasn’t since the concert ended.
And now, standing just inside the door, he still hasn’t moved away.
“That,” I say softly, “was the best night I’ve had in years.”
He smiles in that quiet way he gets when he’s not teasing me.
“Good,” he answers. “Because I was hoping it would be.”
“You watched me the entire time.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I was appreciating the show,” he says.
I laugh, but the sound comes out softer than before, quieter somehow, because now that we’re alone again, the teasing feels different, not gone, just slower, like everything between us has shifted into something deeper without either of us deciding when that happened.
“You really did this for me,” I say after a moment.
“I did.”
“You remembered something I said in a hospital room when you were barely awake.”
“I remember everything you say,” he replies.
And the way he says it makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
He steps closer. Suddenly. Not like he’s rushing. Just enough that the space between us disappears without me noticing when it happens.
“You’re still smiling,” he says quietly.
“I’m happy.”
“I like that,” he answers.
“I like you,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words hang between us. And something in his expression shifts when he hears them.
“I like you too,” he says, softer now.
Then his hand lifts slowly, like he’s still giving me time to change my mind even though we both already know I won’t. His fingers brush my cheek, and it makes my breath catch before I even realize I’ve stopped breathing.
“You’re still allowed to kiss me,” I whisper.
“Good,” he murmurs.
And then he does.
The first kiss is gentle. Not hesitant. Just careful. Like he’s making sure I’m still right there with him every second of it.
His mouth moves slowly against mine, warm and steady and familiar already in a way that surprises me. When my hands slide up into the front of his shirt without thinking about it, he lets out the smallest breath against my lips, like that one movement meant more to him than he expected.
“You sure?” he asks quietly, his forehead resting against mine.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Because we don’t have to…”
“I want to,” I admit.
And the second the words leave my mouth, something settles between us completely.
No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just us.
His arm moves around my waist more firmly then, pulling me closer.
It’s impossible not to feel how carefully he’s still protecting his shoulder even while he’s holding me.
The awareness of that—of how much he’s still healing and still choosing to be here with me anyway- makes everything feel even more real.
“You’re supposed to be recovering,” I murmur against his collarbone.
“I am recovering,” he says softly.
“This doesn’t count as recovery.”
“It counts,” he replies.
I laugh into his shoulder.
“You’re ridiculous.”