It smelled like smoke, ink, and something metallic that didn’t quite leave the air, no matter how many candles or swipes of disinfectant tried to cover it up. The buzz of the tattoo machine had a rhythm to it—steady, almost soothing. Not unlike a heartbeat.

Not hers, obviously. Hers was acting like it had something to prove.

The room was low-lit and gold-toned, humming in that liminal way that made time feel irrelevant. Like 11 p.m. could stretch forever if it wanted to. The warm glow from the Edison bulbs didn’t chase the shadows away—it just carved them prettier.

Heather sat on a cracked leather bench, back pressed against the exposed brick wall, one boot crossed over the other at the ankle, like she had nowhere better to be. And she didn’t. Not tonight.

Benji was in the chair.

Half-slung into the old, patched-up thing like he’d been born in it, like he knew exactly how to lean into the pain without giving it power. He was shirtless—his jeans low on his hips, his chest and arms already scattered with ink, memories written in smoke and steel and ghosts.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look away from her, either.

Heather couldn’t see what he was getting—not yet. The artist was perched on a stool, blocking her view with hunched shoulders and practiced hands, but Benji’s face was visible. Lit just enough that she could see the calm. The quiet kind of confidence that came from doing something real.

They hadn’t told each other what they were getting. That was part of the point.

Something small. Something just ours.
So we remember.

Her arms were folded tight across her ribs, fingers curled slightly, lips pressed together like she was trying not to betray how much she already wanted to know what his would be. But it was better this way. Let the mystery live a little.

Her voice broke the stillness—not loud, just enough to cut through the static buzz and low hum of the old shop speaker.

“You look like you were born doing this,” she murmured, her gaze flicking to his eyes and holding there. “Like ink just… found its way to you.”

She tried to sound flippant, but it came out softer than intended. Warmer. Like maybe watching him get permanently marked for them was doing something to her spine. To her chest.

To her heart, if she was being honest—which she never was.

Not unless it was him.

She shifted on the bench, the worn leather creaking beneath her, and smiled to herself—barely.

“Better be good,” she added under her breath. “I’m not wasting my first tattoo on a boy who’s bad with metaphors.”

And yet—

She already knew, without seeing it, it would wreck her in the best way.

Just like he had.

[PS, I don't want to send a message and have it make a noise but maybe after they get their tattoos they get a call from someone (Max/Eli or Alice Mae/Caleb) that furthers the storyline?]

Benji didn’t smile right away.

Mostly because if he did, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t say fuck the needle and go to her. Crawl right off this chair and onto that cracked leather bench and kiss the words off her mouth before they had a chance to settle between them.

But he stayed still. Steady.

The needle buzzed against his ribs, and he barely registered it—not when her voice landed like that. Not when she was looking at him like he was something sacred and stupid all at once. Like he might be the ruin she wanted to risk.

He breathed in slow, deep. Let the sound of the machine settle into his chest like another truth.

Then he tilted his head toward her, eyes locked, grin lazy but laced with fire.

“I was born doing this,” he murmured. “Pain. Permanence. Choosing the thing that might leave a mark.”

He held her gaze through the flicker of the overhead bulbs.

“Especially when it’s you.”

He let that hang in the air—long enough for her to feel it, long enough to mean it. And then, because she’d handed him her heart in a throwaway line, he gave her one back.

“It’s good,” he said. “You’ll hate how much.”

A breath. A wince. The artist hit the curve of his ribs again, and it pulled a sharp inhale from him—but he didn’t look away. Not for a second.

“And for the record,” he added, voice low, warm, rough, “you could ink a matchstick behind your ear and I’d still think it was poetry.”

A pause.

“’Cause it’s yours.”

And that? That was everything.

Because Heather didn’t belong to pretty.
She belonged to real.

To the things that burned.

And Benji Burroughs?

He’d let her set him on fire every single time.

God, he was ridiculous.

Hot, inked, half-shirtless trouble in a broken-down chair, talking like she was the entire origin story of desire itself. And the worst part?

He wasn’t even wrong.

Heather rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away—sharp and full of teeth, the kind of grin that said you don’t win, but I might let you think you do.

Her chin tipped slightly as she looked at him through her lashes, watching the way his breath hitched when the needle traced near his ribs. He was trying so hard to stay cocky, stay cool, but she could feel the undercurrent in him—like a live wire humming just beneath the surface.

“I’m starting to think you get off on suffering,” she purred, just loud enough to cut through the buzz. “Or maybe you’re just a masochist with a thing for red lipstick and emotional damage.”

She crossed her legs again, slow and deliberate, letting her boot tap softly against the bench in time with the hum of the machine. Her fingers traced lazy shapes into her own thigh, like she was bored—but her eyes never left him.

Not for a second.

She couldn’t see the tattoo yet. Didn’t want to. The anticipation was delicious. The idea that there was something just for her, hidden beneath skin and ink and want—that made her stomach flip in a way she wasn’t ready to analyze.

Instead, she leaned back, gaze molten and full of mischief.

“Hope it’s not my name,” she teased. “That’s, like, at least a third-date level of commitment, Burroughs.”

But even as she said it, she felt the truth anchoring low in her chest.

This was the commitment.

No labels. No declarations. Just this. The ink. The moment. The fire humming between them that didn’t need definition to be real.

She glanced away for the first time—down at her own wrist, her ribs, her hip—silently debating where hers would go. Her first tattoo. His wasn’t even done and she already knew she’d be chasing this high for the rest of her life.

She wanted something small. But not soft. Something sharp and pretty and hers. A little gothic. A little glam. Maybe a thorn-wrapped heart. Maybe a snake curled like an S—secret, sacred, survival. Something that said:

I’m not what they made me.
I’m what I survived.
And I’m not done writing my story.

She smirked to herself.

Something gritty and feminine. The kind of ink that would whisper watch your hands and handle with care in the same breath.

And just maybe…

Maybe she’d put it right over her ribs.

Where it would hurt.

Where it would be close to her heart.

Benji breathed in sharp when the needle dragged along bone—ribs always did that, lit a fire just under the skin. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Not when she was sitting there across from him, looking like a warning label you wanted to read twice.

God, she was dangerous.

That mouth. That voice. That perfect, terrifying mind of hers spinning out lines like emotional damage and red lipstick were listed under side effects of touching her.

And maybe they were.

But he was already sold.

He let out a laugh, low and hoarse, like it had to push past too much heat in his throat to make it out clean.

“I mean… you say that like it’s a bad thing,” he rasped. “But if pain’s the price of proximity to you? I’d pay it twice.”

The artist kept working, wiping the skin clean before going back in, but Benji’s focus didn’t drift—not from her. Not when she crossed her legs like a countdown. Not when her boot tapped out a beat that felt synced to his bloodstream.

His eyes tracked the motion of her hand on her thigh—lazy, precise, lethal. Like a spell she was casting without trying.

He grinned, crooked and honest.

“You think I’d get your name?” he said, shaking his head like she’d just accused him of being the kind of guy who rushed the best part of a song. “Nah, Heather. You don’t ink a name.”

A pause. His voice softened.

“You ink a feeling. One you don’t want to forget. One you can’t.”

And damn if this wasn’t exactly that.

Her.

The bench. The buzz. The blood and the risk and the way she looked away like she wasn’t letting him see the exact moment she decided where her own would go.

He caught it anyway.

Caught the flicker in her eyes, the quiet war she was waging with herself between power and vulnerability and the ache to mark this moment so it didn’t disappear when the night faded.

And maybe he was a masochist. Maybe he did like the sting.

But he liked her more.

So he leaned his head back again, gaze still on her even as the pain bit deeper.

“If you want it to hurt,” he said, voice rough and reverent, “put it where you breathe.”

He nodded toward her ribs.

“That way, every time it aches, you’ll know it’s still alive.”

Another beat. Then, softer:

“Like we are.”

He didn’t say it, but the words hung between them anyway:

Still alive. Still choosing this. Still not running.

And when the artist finally pulled the needle away and said, “You’re good,” Benji sat up slow—chest rising, ink raw, heart louder than ever.

He didn’t move to cover it.

He just turned toward her, voice low and real and entirely hers.

“Your turn, Goode girl.”

Then, smirking—

“Wanna outdo me, or you wanna match?”

The second he turned toward her, shirt still off, ink still raw and gleaming on his ribs, Heather felt something in her chest tip. Not crash. Not spiral.

Shift.

Like gravity had changed its mind about where her center was—and decided it was currently seated five feet away, grinning at her like a storm in a leather jacket.

The tattoo was simple. Clean. Violent. Beautiful.

And it wrecked her.

Because it wasn’t just art. It was a declaration. A vow she hadn’t asked for, but he’d made anyway. She should’ve been smug. Should’ve tossed him a flirty comment and pretended she wasn’t melting inside like a match pressed too close to flame.

But she didn’t.

Not right away.

Because for one terrifying, glorious moment, she just let him see her.

She let her face soften. Let her smile shift into something real, something that said you got to me, you idiot, without needing a single word.

And then—because that was dangerous territory, and because this was them—she let the fire crackle back to life behind her eyes.

“Alright, Romeo,” she said, slipping off the bench and brushing past him with a smirk that could start wars. “You win this round.”

She stopped in front of the artist’s chair, fingers at the hem of her mesh top, and glanced sideways at him with a slow arch of one brow.

“But let’s see if you can keep up.”

Her voice dropped as she turned to the artist, who was already wiping down the equipment for round two. She leaned in slightly, expression unreadable, and whispered her design low and deliberate—but never took her eyes off Benji.

Not once.

His tattoo had made her feel everything. And now?

Now she was going to return the favor.

With her own twist.

She peeled off the mesh top in one smooth motion, revealing the deep red bralette beneath, the one that looked like something between armor and lingerie. Her skin was pale in the dim light, blank where it would soon be marked.

Heather climbed into the chair and shifted until her left ribs were exposed, gaze never wavering.

“Come here,” she ordered, voice velvet and steel. She jerked her chin toward the empty space on the other side of the chair. “Sit where I can reach you. In case I pass out or scream or cry or something.”

A pause. Then that devil-smile.

“I won’t. But I’d hate to get blood on the floor when I could get it on you.”

She winked, but something fierce and earnest burned beneath the teasing.

Because the truth?

She was tough. Tougher than anyone gave her credit for.
Maybe even tougher than she gave herself credit for.
But even the toughest girls sometimes wanted a hand to hold.

Just in case.

Benji moved before she finished the sentence.

Not with urgency. Not with panic. But with that same quiet intensity he always carried when it came to her—like his body already knew what to do, like every cell in him had been rewired the second she said come here.

He settled into the chair beside her, close but careful, thigh pressed to hers, arm draped along the back of the leather. Not possessive. Just there. Just hers.

And yeah, his pulse was still hammering from the sight of her—bare skin, deep red bralette, the promise of something permanent being carved just under her ribs. But what hit him harder than any of that was the ask.

The invitation.

She was letting him stay.

Letting him see the raw, the real, the part of her that didn’t need to be polished or punishing to be powerful.

Benji turned toward her, gaze locked on her profile as the artist snapped on fresh gloves. His fingers reached—lightly—settling just above her knee. Not gripping. Just anchoring. Just offering.

And when she tossed that devil-smile, when she said I’d hate to get blood on the floor when I could get it on you, he damn near laughed—but it didn’t quite make it to his mouth.

Too much reverence.

Too much real.

He leaned in, just enough that his lips brushed the shell of her ear, voice low, intimate, so only she could feel it against her skin.

“You can bleed on me, Heather,” he murmured. “Anytime. Any way.”

A pause. His hand squeezed gently on her leg.

“And I won’t let a drop fall that you don’t want to give.”

Then he pulled back, slow, and looked at her—really looked.

Eyes dark and steady. Smile soft at the corners but burning underneath.

“Let it hurt,” he said. “Let it mean something.”

And when the needle hit her skin, and she flinched just slightly—just enough to prove she wasn’t made of stone—Benji was there.

Hand tightening around hers. Body angled toward her like a shield.

He didn’t say another word.

He didn’t need to.

Because he was with her for the pain.
And the permanence.
And everything that came after.

The sting was immediate.

Sharp. Precise. Electric.

It wasn’t unbearable—it was nothing she couldn’t handle. But still, it pulled at her. Like the pain was calling something old to the surface. Something buried.

She didn’t make a sound.

But her fingers curled around Benji’s tighter.

Their hands were locked together between them, knuckles pale and veins humming. And whenever the needle dragged over a new patch of skin—over bone, over memory—his grip shifted. Tightened. Matched her breath like a metronome for everything she wasn’t saying.

She didn’t look at the machine. Didn’t watch the ink rise beneath her skin.

She just watched him.

His face. His eyes. The way he studied her like she was scripture and storm all at once. Like this wasn’t just about watching her get a tattoo—it was about witnessing her become something new.

There were moments she winced.

Flinched.

Held her breath and bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper.

And every single time, his hand flexed like instinct. Like a promise. Like maybe he was feeling it too.

They didn’t talk.

But she kissed him once—soft and fast—when the pain hit particularly sharp. Right on the corner of his mouth. Just to ground herself. Just to steal a second of oxygen from the place it felt safest.

Later, when he tried to sneak a glance over the artist’s shoulder, she caught him. Eyes narrowing, lips smirking.

She reached up with her free hand and covered his eyes with her palm, playfully firm.

No peeking.

The anticipation was part of the power. And she wasn’t giving that away.

Not yet.

Not until it was hers.

When the needle finally stopped and the gloves came off, Heather blinked—slow, like surfacing from something deeper than ink and pain. She exhaled, long and quiet, and slid her fingers out from under Benji’s grip, though they lingered for just a second longer.

“Thanks,” she murmured to the artist, voice a little huskier than before.

She stood carefully, tugging her top back down, the fabric brushing against skin that felt new. Branded. Alive.

And then—finally—she turned.

Her eyes found Benji’s. Steady. Certain.

And she lifted the hem of her mesh top just enough to show him.

A slender dagger, identical in shape to his, inked just beneath her left ribs—blade down. But instead of a wildflower, hers was coiled with a serpent.

The snake wrapped around the dagger in elegant, razor-sharp curves—its scales inked in fine, feminine linework. There were thorns along the blade’s edge and a tiny bloom tucked in the snake’s mouth. A bloom that matched the one beneath his dagger. Subtle. Shared. Undeniable.

It was beautiful. And brutal.

Delicate and defiant.

Heather Goodwin didn’t get tattoos for aesthetics. She got them for meaning.

And this one?

It said everything.

I’m dangerous. I’ve survived. And I’m not alone anymore.

She dropped her shirt. Tilted her head. And smiled.

“You were right,” she said, quiet and smug.

“It is good.”

Benji swore his heart stopped.

Not the dramatic, lovesick kind of stopped. The real kind. The kind that made his chest ache and his breath stall and his mouth go dry because damn.

That was hers.

That was hers.

And it wrecked him.

The second she lifted her shirt, everything else—the buzzing machine, the scent of antiseptic and burned ozone, the low hum of midnight outside the windows—vanished. All that was left was ink and skin and her.

The dagger mirrored his.

But it was the snake that undid him.

The way it coiled—fierce and feminine, dangerous and divine—made something primal in his chest tighten. And the bloom?

His bloom.

Buried in the mouth of something lethal and still alive.

Benji blinked once. Twice. Like maybe if he looked long enough, he’d wake up different. Better. Worthy.

Because she could’ve gotten anything. Anything.

And she’d chosen this.

He stepped forward slow—reverent, like the moment deserved silence—and stopped just close enough to slide a hand gently, carefully, around her waist. His palm hovered over the fabric, not pressing, not pushing. Just there.

“You’re unreal,” he said, voice low and stunned. “Like… holy shit.”

His other hand came up to brush her hair off her shoulder, exposing the line of her collarbone. His eyes never left hers.

“You took my blade,” he murmured, “and made it yours.”

A pause.

“And I swear, I’ve never wanted to kneel for anything in my life more than I want to for that ink right now.”

Then—because he was him—his grin returned. Slow. Dangerous.

“Dagger twins, huh?” he teased, thumb grazing the edge of her hip. “Guess that makes us the hot, cursed power couple of every horror movie ever.”

He leaned in, brushed his lips against her temple, soft as a vow.

“But you win.”

His voice dipped, warm and rough.

“That snake? That’s the most Heather thing I’ve ever seen.”

A beat.

“And it’s perfect.”

Because so was she.
Tattooed.
Unbroken.
And finally, finally, not alone.

Benji didn’t pull back.

Couldn’t.

Not when she was standing there like that—shoulders squared, eyes daring, shirt still lifted just enough to flash him her rebellion etched in black and blood beneath her ribs. Like she wasn’t just showing him a tattoo. She was showing him everything.

And he wasn’t about to look away.

His fingers found the hem of her shirt again—not to lift it further, not to tease—but to trace a slow, reverent line along the edge of the ink beneath it. Just enough pressure to let her know he was memorizing it.

Every curve of the blade.
Every coil of the snake.
Every goddamn thorn.

“Fuck, Heather,” he whispered, his voice hoarse now, dragged raw by something that felt way too close to worship. “You didn’t just match me.”

He swallowed hard, like the words tasted too big to say.

“You answered me.”

Because that’s what it felt like—like she’d taken the mark he carved into himself and made it a conversation. One only the two of them could speak. One that didn’t need names or declarations or sunny, unscarred promises.

Just ink.
Just survival.
Just this.

Benji leaned in again—closer this time, breath ghosting over her cheek, jaw, collarbone—and pressed a kiss right where her skin was most sensitive. Just below the fresh ink. Just enough to make her pulse kick.

A vow in reverse.

“I’m never letting anything touch you,” he murmured. “Not without going through me first.”

And then, because she’d earned it—because he needed it—he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. To see all that fire she tried to hide behind her smirk.

His thumb slid under her hand and laced with it, soft and slow.

“You branded me,” he said simply. “Long before the tattoo.”

And there was no smugness there. No swagger.

Just truth.

And maybe, if she looked close enough—

Just the beginning of something she’d never been given before.

Safety.
Home.
Forever, if she wanted it.

He smiled—slow and devastating.

“Now let’s get the fuck out of here before I do something reckless like kiss every square inch of you under a fluorescent light.”

A beat.

“But fair warning, Goode girl.”

He leaned down, kissed her once—full, deep, reverent.

“When I do kiss that tattoo?”

“I’m not stopping until you forget it hurt.”

She should’ve made a quip.

Should’ve rolled her eyes, smirked something wicked, asked him if he practiced being that smooth in the mirror or if it just oozed out of him naturally.

But she couldn’t.

Not right away.

Because Benji Burroughs was standing in front of her like she’d dropped a bomb and he couldn’t decide whether to worship the crater or crawl inside and live there.

And the way he said it—you answered me—felt like something she’d never dared to want.

Like someone finally saw the sharp edges she wrapped around herself not as a warning, but as an invitation.
And he didn’t just stay—he matched them.

God, she was gone for him.

Head-over-combat-boots, can't-see-straight, might-murder-for-you gone.

Not just because he was hot—though, let's be real, that didn’t hurt. That jawline alone had committed crimes. And the tattoos? Exhibit A through Z. But it was more than that. Always had been.

It was how he listened. How he held her hand through pain like it was sacred. How he looked at her like every scar was a prayer and every word she said was a spell.

And Heather Goodwin didn’t do soft.

But somehow, he made her feel safe inside her sharpness. Like the dagger wasn’t the point—it was the promise.

She dropped her shirt, her hand still tangled with his, and tilted her chin up just enough to look smug again. That signature Heather heat back in her gaze.

“Well,” she said, dragging him toward the door with a flick of her wrist and a sway of her hips, “good to know you’re not completely brainless, Burroughs. Took you long enough to realize I branded you.”

Her boots echoed on the concrete as she led them into the alleyway, the black metal door clicking shut behind them.

“But let’s get one thing straight,” she said, her fingers tightening around his as they stepped out into the warm, electric night. “Nothing touches you either.”

Her voice dropped—low, serious. Not teasing.

“If it tries, I’ll go to hell and stab the devil myself just to drag you back.”

And she meant it.

Because for all her armor, all her sass, all her well-earned reputation for being untouchable—he wasn’t.

He was hers.

And nothing was taking him from her.

Not this town.
Not the curse.
Not fate.

Not without burning first.

She stopped beside his truck, finally turning back to him, and with one hand on his chest and the other still gripping his like she had no plans of letting go, she leaned in and whispered, lips brushing just below his jaw:

“Let’s go home, dagger boy.”

Then she kissed him again—hot, slow, and deliberate.

A brand on top of a brand.