Page 83 of You Owe Me

And she gives it to me like it’s mine. Because it is.

She uncaps the marker. The smell of ink punches through the car’s stale heat. Then, with the kind of focus she usually saves for marine biology rants and flashcards, she starts to write. I.O.U. Each letter shaky but deliberate. Each stroke binding.

My eyes track every movement like they’re tethered to her fingers. I don’t blink. Don’t breathe. When she’s done, she doesn’t look up—just holds out her wrist. The letters stare back at me, black and bold against her skin.

“Here,” she says softly, like an offering.

And something in my chest twists, sharp and deep—the kind of pain you get when you realize you’ve already fallen, and the ground hasn’t even given out yet.

I take her wrist in my hand and brush my thumb across the fresh ink. It smudges slightly, which makes me smile. Because the real thing won’t. The real thing will scar.

“You sure?” Though I don’t plan on taking no for an answer.

She nods. Not brave. Not reckless. Resolved. And maybe that’s worse.

I drop her hand and kill the engine. “Let’s go.”

The bell over the door chimes as we walk in. It’s quiet inside—dim lighting, smells like antiseptic and steel and ink, sterile and intimate in a way that feels almost surgical.

The guy behind the counter looks up. Buzzcut. Neck tats. Piercings that glint in the glow of his desk lamp.

“You walk-ins?” He flips his clipboard shut.

“Yeah.” I step forward. “Two pieces. Text only. Small. No art, no shading.”

He nods. “Names?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

I drop three hundred-dollar bills on the counter. He eyes it, then us, then shrugs. “Pick a station. I’ll set up.”

We move to the corner booth tucked into a semi-private nook with a long mirror and worn black leather chairs. There’s a tray beside it covered in shrink-wrapped instruments and tiny plastic cups of black ink.

Ainsley doesn’t sit. She just stands there like she’s waiting for me to change my mind. I won’t.

“You ready?”

She hesitates, then nods and sits. I take the seat beside her, close enough to smell her shampoo, to feel the heat rolling off her skin.

The artist gloves up. “Who’s first?”

“She is.”

She glances at me—not scared, just wide-eyed and curious, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.

I take her wrist and hold it out to the artist. “This. Exactly.”

He nods and starts copying the design onto tracing paper. While he works, I reach for her hand. She gives it to me without protest. It’s soft and shaking, and fuck, it fits perfectly in my mine.

The stencil goes on, cold and wet. She shivers, but I don’t let go.

“Keep holding her,” the artist says. “Most girls flinch.”

“She won’t.”

She looks at me like I’ve just dared her to prove me right. Good.

The gun buzzes to life—loud, mechanical, hungry. She tenses but doesn’t pull away. I lean closer, my voice low and steady. “Breathe.”

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