The tattoo studio was supposed to be closed.
That was the first thing Lila noticed when she pushed the door open, no neon sign glowing in the window, no music leaking into the street. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic mixed with something warmer. Leather. Skin. Heat.
She should have turned around.
Instead, she stepped inside and let the door lock behind her with a dull, final click.
"You're late."
The voice came from behind the counter. Male. Calm. Familiar in a way that unsettled her.
"I said I'd come after hours," Lila replied, shrugging off her jacket. "You didn't say you'd actually still be here."
Rowan straightened slowly, wiping his hands on a black towel. He didn't smile. He never did. That was part of what made him dangerous, nothing about him asked for permission.
"I don't leave work unfinished," he said.
Her gaze dropped to his forearms, inked, strong, veins faintly visible under skin marked by stories she didn't know. He wore a sleeveless shirt, dark jeans riding low on his hips. Too casual for the way her pulse reacted.
She reminded herself why she was there.
Not for him.
For the tattoo.
"You sure about the placement?" he asked, nodding toward the sketch in her hand.
She unfolded the paper. The design was small. Intimate. Not meant for public viewing.
"Yes."
"Even knowing who'll see it?"
Her jaw tightened. "That's the point."
Rowan studied her for a long moment, eyes dark and assessing. Then he gestured toward the chair. "Sit."
The vinyl was cold against the back of her thighs as she climbed onto it. He rolled closer on his stool, the space between them shrinking until she could smell him, soap, metal, something uniquely his.
"Lie back," he said.
She did.
The lights above her felt brighter now, exposing more than she'd intended. Rowan pulled on gloves, the snap echoing in the room. Professional. Controlled.
"You're tense," he noted.
"Funny," she muttered. "You say that like you're not hovering over my ribs with a needle."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Trust me."
That was the second mistake she made that night.
The needle buzzed to life. She sucked in a breath as it touched her skin, sharp, electric, grounding. His free hand braced her side, fingers warm and steady.
"Breathe," he murmured. "Don't fight it."
She focused on the sensation, the drag of ink beneath skin, the intimacy of someone marking her permanently. Every stroke felt deliberate. Possessive, even.
"You always choose spots like this?" he asked quietly.
"Like what?"
"Hidden. Close to bone."
She swallowed. "I don't like people thinking they know everything about me."
His thumb shifted slightly, brushing skin that wasn't part of the design. Accidental. Maybe.
"I think," he said slowly, "you like control more than privacy."
Her breath hitched.
"That's not what this is about."
"No?" His gaze flicked up to hers. "Then why come to me instead of anyone else?"
The question landed too close to truth.
She didn't answer.
The needle stopped.
Rowan leaned back, studying her face. "If this crosses a line, say it now."
Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. "You're the one holding the needle."
A pause. Heavy. Charged.
Then he turned it back on.
Time stretched. The room narrowed to sensation and breath and the slow burn of something unspoken. His hand remained on her side longer than necessary. Her body responded despite her better judgment.
When he finally finished, he wiped the skin gently, reverently.
"Done," he said.
She sat up slowly, adrenaline still humming. "Can I see it?"
He handed her the mirror.
The tattoo was perfect. Clean. Dark. Exactly where she wanted it.
"Looks permanent," she said lightly.
"Everything is," he replied. "Eventually."
She met his gaze in the mirror, their eyes locking through reflection rather than distance.
That's when the door at the back of the studio opened.
A woman stepped out.
Tall. Confident. Wearing Rowan's jacket.
"Well," the woman said, smiling faintly. "This must be the after-hours client."
Lila froze.
Rowan didn't move.
"This is Mara," he said calmly. "My wife."
The word hit like ice water.
Mara's eyes flicked from Lila's flushed skin to the mirror in her hand. Something unreadable passed across her face, then interest.
"You didn't tell me she'd be beautiful," Mara said.
Lila stood abruptly. "I didn't realize..."
"That he was married?" Mara finished. "Neither did I. Not at first."
Rowan exhaled. "We agreed."
"I know what we agreed," Mara said, stepping closer. Her gaze never left Lila. "And this isn't breaking it."
Lila's heart pounded. "I think I should go."
Mara smiled. "You could."
She reached out, fingers brushing the fresh ink on Lila's skin. Lila shivered.
"Or," Mara added softly, "you could stay and learn why we stopped pretending lines mattered."
Rowan watched them both now, silent, eyes dark with something like anticipation.
The studio felt smaller. Warmer. Charged with a choice Lila hadn't come prepared to make.
Her tattoo still burned.
But not from the needle.
And for the first time that night, she understood.
She hadn't come for the ink.
She'd come to be marked in a way that wouldn't wash off.