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Beneath the Ink

She spotted the scribbled letters on his wrist—Evy. Her name, hidden in plain sight among the many tattoos she loved to trace and read in bed.

“Nice try, secret agent,” she snorted, giving his butt a sharp poke. “Thought you could sneak that past me?” But her voice caught—just for a split second—and she hoped he didn’t notice the way her chest tightened.

Evy grabbed his tattoo pencil and flicked it at him, her grin a touch too wide. “Your turn. Right here.” She tugged at the waistband of her shorts, pointing just above her hip. “Write it—Earle. And no fancy fonts. I’m serious about you.”

He started sketching, brow furrowed like a kid doing homework. She watched him, arms crossed over her chest, trying to keep her breathing steady. Damn him for making her feel like this—like she could be soft and safe.

“Okay, Picasso,” she said, but her voice cracked on the first syllable. She cleared her throat, rolling her eyes to cover it. “First of all —let’s make it lower, maybe? And second, when you’re done, you better kiss it better. No refunds on boo-boos.” She nudged him with her foot, hoping he wouldn’t see the tremble in her hands.

Her gaze locked on his, and for a second—just a second—her guard fell. The air between them felt different, charged. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“Don’t mess it up,” she whispered, softer this time, almost to herself. Because she’d never let him see how much she needed this—needed him. But the truth was there, raw and bright and unspoken, beneath the ink and the laughter.

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