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“And here I thought we were friends.” I sit up, twisting side to side to stretch my back.

She takes the opportunity to adjust her position in my chair, making herself more comfortable. “What gave you that idea?”

“You haven’t stood me up once.”

“It’s called an appointment.”

“It’s commitment.”

She drops her chin. “. . . to the tattoo.”

“And me.”

Her eyes narrow. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to be friends with your therapist.”

“Please,” I scoff. “I would have fired you as a client ages ago. If I was your therapist, you’d actually have to share your thoughts.”

“That’s true, I would.” She sighs.

“Oh good, so it’s personal, then. I get it. Too good for your tattoo artist, yeah?”

“Too good for a stalker,” she argues. Well, well, well. Look who decided to wear her take-a-chance pants. Not that she’s giving me anything new. Her friendly banter is a stunning development.

“Whatever you say, but one of these days you’re going to slip up and accidentally share something meaningful.”

She doesn’t reply. What a petulant little princess. She’s twenty-four, and would probably look older if she didn’t always walk in here with a bubble gum sucker I want to bite.

I wipe away the excess ink after shading and raise an eyebrow. “I can hear your silent judgment.”

Dead air.

“Oh, come on, we were on a roll! Don’t shut down on me now.” I groan. “You’re kinda bad at making friends.”

She tilts toward me. “And yet you’re so invested in me!” she announces with mock surprise.

A slow smile splits my face and I wink at her, then glance down and continue working.

Now it’s time for me to roll my eyes. “Yes, I live for your every word. It’s the highlight of my year.”

Sure, she piques my interest, but not that much. In fact, her most remarkable attribute is that she’s not remarkable at all. I suppose some would consider rehab something, but after growing up the way I did, drugs are nothing new. I probably won’t see her after this tattoo anyway, and I’m nearly finished.

“After this, we’ll be out of reasons to keep seeing each other. How will I survive?” I ask.

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

She’s kind of a brat. “You know, if you ever wanted to not talk to me while I’m not stabbing you with needles, and since we’re friends⁠—”

She narrows her gaze. “I think we should stick to the needle stabbing.”

I grin at her before wiping the last beads of ink. “Kinky.”

Sitting back, I inspect the shading, turning her wrist while I scrutinize every inch of the tattoo for weak or inconsistent areas that need to be mitigated. As usual, it’s flawless. Another case study in my ongoing excellence. I set down the machine and peel off my gloves. “Okay. You’re all done.” Shoving backward on my roller stool, I slide across my booth and toss the gloves in the trash. I grab a new pair from the box on the wall before administering aftercare.

“Thank you. I love it.” It’s a sincere compliment. Anna admires my work but seems to pause before she sits up and clears her throat. “Actually, I was wondering if I could commission another piece from you. It’s a cover-up.”

I could have sworn when we started she told me this was her first tattoo. Oh, well. “It’s as if you’re obsessed with me,” I joke, applying serum and sheathing her fresh ink with plastic.

“Charming,” she deadpans.