One week.
That’s how long it took for the tattoo to heal, and for me to lose my mind.
Every time I looked at the small lightning bolt on my arm, my stomach fluttered. It wasn’t just ink anymore. It was a memory. A spark. A reminder of a man whose voice I couldn’t stop hearing in my head.
Rafe.
I told myself it was ridiculous. He was a tattoo artist. I was a customer. It was nothing.
Except it didn’t feel like nothing.
It felt like the way my heart had skipped when he leaned close. Like the warmth of his fingers on my skin. Like the way he’d looked at me, not just at me, but into me.
So when the calendar hit the one-week mark, I lost it. I wore a sleeveless blouse, left my hair down, and pretended I wasn’t walking into the shop hoping he’d notice me.
Ink Therapy looked exactly the s
