Page 22 of Rose
They settled on the couch, shoulders brushing as they opened the takeout boxes, the scent of sesame chicken and fried rice pushing back the heaviness of the day for just a moment.
And in that quiet space, between bites and unspoken truths, she allowed herself to feel something close to normal.
Even if it was temporary.
After they finished eating, Ahzii got back to work, wiping her hands and pulling on fresh gloves. She powered up the tattoo gun and adjusted the light above him as Kiyan laid back in the chair, chest bare, skin already mapped with the outlines she started weeks ago.
She was reworking the chest piece they’d barely made progress on last week, her hands steady as the needle danced across his skin.
Basketball practice, travel, endorsements—life in the limelight made it hard to lock him down for sessions, but today he was here. Quiet. Still.
Halfway through the tattoo, when the hum of the gun became the only sound between them, Kiyan’s eyes drifted upward.
He noticed it then.
The rose blooming at the side of her neck. Beautiful and bold—but not enough to hide what rested beneath.
A faint scar. Healed, but still there.
He didn’t think, just reached up and brushed his fingers gently across it.
“What happened right here?” he asked, voice low, hesitant but curious.
She froze. Snapped away from his touch like it burned.
“Nothing, damn.”
Her tone came too sharp, too fast, slicing through the room harder than the tattoo gun ever could.
Kiyan held his hands up, backing off.
“My bad. Didn’t mean to—”
“You straight,” she cut in, softer now, forcing herself to pull it back. “Didn’t mean to snap.”
The air between them settled, tense but quiet.
Kiyan gave a small nod, lips pressed tight. He didn’t push. But the look in his eyes stayed—watchful, wondering. He studied her for a moment longer, the silence stretching between them like a question left hanging.
But Ahzii kept her eyes on the needle, steady and focused, drowning herself in the buzz of the machine.
He didn’t know her. Not really.
All he saw was the beauty. The mystery. The woman who moved like art and poetry and heartbreak all at once. But what he didn’t know was that scar was one of many. And each one whispered the story of the love she lost in fire and smoke, in screams and silence.
He didn’t know. And she wasn’t about to tell him.
Silence stretched between them as Ahzii focused on finishing the tattoo. Her hands moved with muscle memory—precise, steady, detached. She wasn’t here. Not fully.
Once she laid the final wipe across his skin, she applied the aftercare with practiced ease, then grabbed her phone to snap a few photos and videos for her portfolio. Clean work, sharp lines, another masterpiece left behind.
Kiyan watched her. Quiet admiration in his eyes, but he didn’t say a word.
She didn’t meet his gaze, just started cleaning her chair, resetting for whoever came next—except today, there was no one else.
“You can leave now. You know to pay Taylor at the front.”
Her voice was flat, professional, distant. She looked up briefly, then went back to wiping down the counter.
