Page 159 of Dare to Hold
Gray doesn’t hesitate. He lifts our joined hands and announces—loud enough for the entire room to hear, “We’re here to get our first tattoo!”
Every head turns. A guy behind the counter raises abrow.
Gray flashes that mischievous grin of his, squeezing my hand. “Well, not me obviously. This little one here.”
My cheeks go up in flames. “Gray!”
He just laughs, so proud, so utterly unbothered. “What? Gotta mark the moment, babe.”
I shake my head, trying to look exasperated, but I can’t stop smiling.
The hum of the tattoo shop feels louder now that I’m actually in the chair. Gray leans against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching me with that look of his—the one that’s equal parts amused and head-over-heels.
Across from me, the artist, a girl about our age with lavender streaks in her hair and a half-sleeve of delicate line work, flips through sketches as we talk.
“So you’re thinking something faith-related?” she asks, kind and patient, no pressure in her tone.
I nod, chewing my lip. “Yeah. At first, I thought maybe a small cross on my wrist. Or a word, like grace or redeemed.”
I glance down at my arm, imagining it, but somehow, none of it feels right.
She tilts her head, offering a soft smile. “Maybe you should think about it a little longer. You want to love what you get on your skin permanently.”
I pause. The noise of the shop fades.
Then I know.
I swivel in the chair, eyes locking on Gray. “Do you have a pen and paper?”
He blinks, confused, as the artist hands me a notepad and pen.
I shove it toward him. “Here. Write the word love.”
He furrows his brow. “What?”
“Just…write it,” I insist, heart pounding.
A beat passes, and then I see it click. That big, lopsided grin takes over his face, the one that makes my knees weak.
Without a word, he doodles the word love on the paper—his messy, familiar scrawl.
Love
When he hands it back, I take the pen and add my own version beneath his, small and careful.
Love
“You’re getting both?” he asks, half-joking.
“Nope,” I say, eyes shining. “You are too.”
His grin grows. “Now that’s a forever kind of dare.”
The artist smiles at us, genuine and warm. “I love this,” she says, taking the paper. “I’ll be right back.”
And as she disappears toward the back, Gray catches my hand, squeezing it gently.
“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low, sincere.
