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Heat immediately climbs into my face. “Are you planning to do this for the entire appointment?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I’d decide carefully. I’m the one holding the needle.”

That earns me a grin, but he finally pulls his shirt over his head without another comment.

The second I’m looking at bare skin, my brain supplies several very recent memories that have nothing to do with tattooing. I push them aside and step closer to check the healed section on his upper arm.

I can still be professional about this.

Even if Zander seems determined to make me remember how unprofessional we were the last time we were alone together.

The tattoo has healed well. The redness from the first session is gone, leaving the black route lines clean against his skin and the Amsterdam waveform sharp through the center. The gray shading has softened exactly the way I expected, giving the lower half enough depth without making it look heavy.

I step closer and run my fingers lightly near the edge of the healed section, checking the skin.

Zander looks down at me. “Very professional.”

“I’m trying.”

His mouth curves. “Your hands are cold.”

I pull them away and turn toward my tray. “Get on the table.”

He laughs softly. “Back to professional. Got it.”

I shake my head and reach for the machine while he gets into position.

He stretches out on his side, and I position the bolster beneath him, adjust his arm until the skin is sitting the way I need it, then check the transfer marks I added for today’s section.

I pull on fresh gloves and switch on the machine.

Zander glances toward it. “Still not a relaxing sound.”

“You survived last time.”

“Barely.”

“You talked through most of it.”

“That’s my survival technique.”

I smile despite myself, as I settle my hand against his shoulder and begin.

The first line follows the sweep we started last week, continuing upward toward the top of his deltoid. His skin takes the ink cleanly, and within a few minutes I’m back in the rhythm I know best.

Stretch. Line. Wipe. Check.

Whatever awkwardness I expected starts fading once I’m working.

Then Zander shifts slightly beneath my hand, and I remember how that shoulder felt under my palms for an entirely different reason.

I tighten my grip on the machine.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Perfect.”