“You actually planned this,” she murmured, tilting her head at me as if she was seeing me for the first time.

Yeah, I planned this the second she walked away yesterday—the second I realized I couldn’t live in a world where Beverly doubted how much I loved her.

“Okay, then,” she said, looking impressed as she met my gaze. “Tell me what you’re getting.”

One simple letter.

“B.”

Her eyes widened. “For me?”

I gave her a look.

She blinked up at me.

Then, she smirked. “Blake McHayes, you’re getting my initial permanently inked on your skin? God, you’d probably tattoo my face across your chest if I asked, wouldn't you?”

I raised a brow.

Beverly’s smirk deepened, her eyes practically sparkling with mischief. “Wow,” she mused, dragging out the word. “This is some next-level obsession. You realize that, right?”

“You done?” I muttered, already regretting this.

“Do you want to get it in cursive?” she teased. “Maybe add a little heart? Ohhh, what about a crown?”

I ignored her. “Pick a font.”

She blinked. “What?”

I motioned to the book of script samples laid out on the counter. “Go on. Pick a font.”

Beverly’s laughter faded, and something softened in her expression. She reached for my wrist, her fingers gentle as they traced the spot where my pulse throbbed.

She settled on a simple, elegant font—nothing too dramatic, nothing too plain. Just right.

“That one,” she said, tapping her finger against the page just as Dean emerged from the back room, arms crossed. He had done Beverly’s belly button piercing, which was why she greeted him with a smile and a dramatic, “Dean! I brought you a victim.”

Dean sighed. “Shit, this guy?”

“Hey,” I said dryly. “Good to see you too.”

Dean snorted and shook his head. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” he muttered, watching me with a mix of mild annoyance and amusement. “Thought you were too uptight for ink.”

“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, “guess I’m full of surprises.”

Dean gave me a long, skeptical look, then shrugged. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” He motioned for me to follow him.

The studio smelled of antiseptic, the low hum of a tattoo gun buzzing somewhere in the background. Beverly walked beside me, her fingers still tucked into the too-long sleeves of my hoodie, her gaze flicking between me and the designs on the walls.

I expected nerves to hit me—the sharp kind that came with needles, blood, and permanent decisions—but I didn’t feel any of that. All I felt was Beverly standing beside me.

“Sit,” Dean ordered, pulling a pair of gloves from a box and snapping them on. “Where’s it going?”

I reached back and tapped the spot just below my hairline. “Back of my neck.”

He paused. “You sure? That spot’s gonna sting like hell.”