The man nods and slides a thick binder across the counter, the laminated pages sticking slightly as we flip them. Page after page of daggers, flowers, skulls, birds, nothing feels right. Mateo stays patient, though his thumb traces lazy circles against the back of my hand the whole time.
After a while, I wander toward the wall. My eyes catch on a set of framed sketches, delicate, precise pencil lines next to bold splashes of color. Some are dragons, some abstract shapes, but a few are breathtaking celestial pieces. I stare at a watercolor moon, its shadows painted in shades of indigo and gray, and I swear it's glowing.
"Philip," Mateo calls, pulling me from my trance. He's sitting at the counter, waving me over like he's just discovered buried treasure. "I know you didn't want matching tattoos, but what if we did something connected? Like a sun and moon."
My head tilts, my lips tugging upward. "Ooh. Can I be the moon?" I sound way too excited, but I don't care.
