Chapter 13: Permanent Memories
The industrial hum of the ventilation system was the first thing Ana noticed, a sterile white noise underneath the low thrum of a jazz instrumental Nevaieh had queued up on the studio’s speakers. The air smelled of green soap, antiseptic, and the peculiar, clean scent of shea butter balm. Neon light, the kind that mimicked daylight, blazed from overhead fixtures, bleaching any romance out of the room and replacing it with a surgical focus.
Nevaieh moved differently here. In her apartment, she was all languid grace and predatory ease. Here, in her studio—a converted warehouse space with brick walls covered in framed flash and original art—she was all precision. Her hands, so often tangled in Ana’s hair or tracing her skin, were now sheathed in black nitrile gloves. Her long curls were ruthlessly tied back in a bun. The gold nose ring was the only familiar glint.
She’d cleared her largest worktable, laying out her machines, pigment cups, and plastic wrap with a quiet, ritualistic care. Ana sat on the edge of the padded chair, a paper towel spread beneath her, wearing only her jeans. Her top was folded on a nearby stool. The exposed skin of her ribs and torso felt absurdly vulnerable under the clinical light.
“Cold?” Nevaieh asked, not looking up as she snapped the needle bar into her machine. The sound was a sharp, metallic click.
“A little,” Ana admitted. It was more than the room’s temperature.
“It’ll pass.” Nevaieh turned, holding a plastic cup of dark purple ink. “Or it won’t. Either way, you’ll have other things to think about.” Her eyes finally found Ana’s. The playfulness from the morning was gone, replaced by a focused intensity that was just as captivating. “You sure about placement? Ribs are a spicy meatball.”
“You said it had to be where I could feel it,” Ana reminded her, echoing Nevaieh’s own words about the hummingbird. “I want to feel this.”
A ghost of a smile touched Nevaieh’s lips. “Okay then. Lie back.”
Ana settled against the inclined chair, the leather cool against her spine. Nevaieh approached, a marker in her ungloved hand. “Don’t move. Breathe normal.”
The touch of the marker tip was cool and ticklish. Ana watched Nevaieh’s face as she worked. Her brows were drawn together, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration. She wasn’t drawing a literal skyline. She sketched angular shapes, sharp blocks and staggered lines that suggested buildings without detailing them. Then, with a lighter touch, she began weaving in a fluid, swirling thread through the structures—the suggestion of movement, of light, of the chaotic pulse she’d talked about.
“It’s not a postcard,” Nevaieh muttered, more to herself than to Ana. “It’s the grit. The grid. The electrical current.” Her hand moved with a swift, sure confidence.
Ana held her breath, mesmerized. Seeing the concept from her heart translated through Nevaieh’s hand was a peculiar kind of nakedness. This was her interior landscape, given form.
“Okay,” Nevaieh said finally, capping the marker. She held up a hand mirror. “Look.”
Ana took it, angling it to see the design stretching from just under her left breast, curving around her rib cage toward her back. It was stark, graphic, beautiful. It felt dangerous. It felt like hers. “Nevaieh… it’s perfect.”
“Damn right it is.” Nevaieh’s voice held a note of pride. She took the mirror back. “Now the fun part.” She pulled on her other glove, the snap echoing in the quiet room. She picked up her machine, plugged the cord into the pedal at her feet. “Deep breath in. Hold it. Let it out slow when you feel the hit.”
Ana obeyed, filling her lungs. The jazz trumpet wailed a mournful note.
The buzz started, a high, angry whine. Then the needle touched her skin.
It wasn’t one pain. It was a series of them, rapid-fire, a hot, vibrating scratch that burrowed deep into the nerve-rich territory over her ribs. Ana’s body jerked instinctively.
“Easy,” Nevaieh said, her voice low and steady. Her left hand came down firmly on Ana’s hip, pinning her to the table. It wasn’t the possessive grip from the balcony; it was clinical, necessary. “Breathe. Out.”
Ana exhaled, a shaky release. The buzzing continued, relentless. The pain sharpened, localized into a bright, burning line. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She stared at the exposed ductwork on the ceiling, focusing on a rusted bolt.
“Good,” Nevaieh murmured, her attention wholly on the work. The machine’s whine varied as she worked—slower for the solid fills of the building shapes, faster, lighter for the swirling lines of energy. “You’re taking it like a champ.”
Minutes blurred. The pain was a constant, throbbing companion. It ebbed and flowed with Nevaieh’s pressure, the location of the needle. When she hit a particularly bony spot, Ana hissed, her back arching off the table a fraction.
Nevaieh’s pressure on her hip increased. “I know,” she said, the words oddly gentle. “I know it hurts. Stay with me.” She lifted her foot from the pedal. The buzzing stopped. The sudden silence was jarring.
Ana sucked in a ragged breath. Sweat beaded on her temples.
Nevaieh set the machine down. She leaned over, her face close to Ana’s ribs. Ana felt the warm puff of her breath on the wet, tortured skin. Then, the soft press of Nevaieh’s lips, right on a freshly inked line.
The sensation was surreal. The contrast of the kiss—tender, intimate—against the raw, screaming nerve endings was disorienting. A sob caught in Ana’s throat, but it wasn’t from pain.
Nevaieh kissed another line, higher up, near her sternum. Then another, on the swirling “light” thread. Each kiss was a tiny benediction, a seal on the mark she was making. “So pretty,” she whispered against Ana’s skin, her voice vibrating through Ana’s flesh. “Taking this for me. For us.”
Ana’s hands unclenched. She reached one out, finding Nevaieh’s denim-clad thigh, gripping it hard. She needed an anchor. Nevaieh rested her forehead for a second against Ana’s side, a moment of shared stillness, then straightened up. The professional mask was back. “Okay. More shading. Ready?”
“Do it,” Ana breathed, her voice rough.
The buzz started again. This time, Ana didn’t fight it. She let the pain in, rode the sharp, electric current of it. Her eyes found Nevaieh’s face, watched the total absorption there, the way her lower lip was still caught in her teeth, the faint sheen of sweat on her own temple. She was pouring herself into Ana’s skin. The connection was deeper than sex, more invasive than passion. It was a permanence.
Time lost meaning. There was only the buzz, the burning pressure, Nevaieh’s gloved hand steadying her flesh, and the occasional, devastating pause for a kiss on a completed section. Ana drifted in the pain, hyper-aware of every scrape of the needle, every shift of Nevaieh’s weight, every soft grunt of effort she made.
Finally, Nevaieh lifted her foot. The machine whined down into silence. She set it aside and stood back, her eyes critically scanning her work. She peeled off her gloves with a snap, tossing them into a biohazard bin. “Mirror,” she said, her voice hoarse.
She helped Ana sit up, a supporting hand on her back. The movement sent a fresh wave of fiery protest through her side. Nevaieh held the mirror.
Ana looked.
The black lines were bold, stark against her flushed skin. The shading gave it depth, made the cityscape look both solid and shimmering with that trapped, electric energy. It was raw. It was beautiful. It was exactly the feeling—the terrifying, exhilarating exposure of being hers on that balcony, held between her and the endless city.
Tears welled up, hot and sudden. She didn’t try to stop them.
“Hey,” Nevaieh said softly, crouching down beside the chair. She wiped a tear from Ana’s cheek with her thumb. “Too much?”
Ana shook her head, unable to speak. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and touched popNevaieh’s cheek. She left a smudge of black there, pigment from her own skin.
Nevaieh didn’t flinch. She turned her head, kissing Ana’s palm. “It’s a part of you now,” she said. “Our city. Our night.”
“Yeah,” Ana finally managed, her voice a cracked whisper.
Nevaieh stood, moving with a renewed, gentle efficiency. She cleaned the tattoo with cool, soapy paper towels, the touch clinical again but no less careful. She patted it dry, then smoothed a thin layer of shea butter balm over it. The relief was instant, a cooling blanket over the burn. She taped a piece of clear, adhesive bandage over it. “Keep this on for a few days. No tight clothes. You know the drill.”
Ana nodded, her eyes never leaving Nevaieh’s face. The intensity was fading from Nevaieh’s eyes, leaving behind a soft, satiated exhaustion she’d only ever seen after sex.
Nevaieh helped her slip her shirt back on, her hands gentle as they guided the fabric over the sensitive area. She packed her machines away, cleaned the station, all in a familiar, quiet routine. When she was done, she came back to where Ana still sat, slightly stunned on the edge of the chair.
She put her hands on either side of Ana on the table, caging her in. Her scent—green soap and ink and her own sweat—was overwhelming. “How do you feel?” she asked, her gaze searching Ana’s face.
“Branded,” Ana said honestly.
Nevaieh’s smile was small, private, real. “Good.” She leaned in, her lips a breath from Ana’s. “Let’s go home. I need to be the one who takes care of you tonight.”
She helped Ana to her feet. Every movement sent a bright, fresh ache through her side, a constant, thrilling reminder. As they moved through the darkening studio, turning off lights, Ana caught their reflection in the black glass of the street-facing window. Nevaieh’s arm around her shoulders, supporting her weight. And on Nevaieh’s cheek, under the stark studio lights she’d left on by the door, the smudged, black proof of what they’d just done.
Ana leaned into her, letting the pain and the profound sense of belonging carry her forward, out into the gathering Miami night.
The night air outside the studio was a balm, thick with humidity and the distant scent of ozone from a storm brewing out over the ocean. It clung to Ana’s skin, a damp contrast to the sterile, air-conditioned environment they’d just left. Every step sent a fresh, bright ache through her ribcage. It was a grounding, living pain.
Nevaieh’s arm around her shoulders was firm, unwavering. “Easy,” she murmured, her voice a low vibration against Ana’s side. “I’ve got you.” A rideshare’s headlights swept over them, illuminating the stark black smudge on Nevaieh’s cheek. Ana reached up, her thumb brushing the pigment. Nevaieh caught her wrist, turning her head to press a kiss to Ana’s palm. The gesture was so tender it made Ana’s breath hitch.
They didn’t speak in the car. Ana leaned her head against the cool window, watching the neon streams of Washington Avenue blur past. The pain was a live wire under her skin, echoing the buzz of the needle. She felt carved open, but in a way that felt filled. Nevaieh kept her hand on Ana’s thigh, her thumb tracing slow, absent circles through the denim.
Up in the apartment, the familiar silence wrapped around them. The city’s glow was their only light. Nevaieh guided Ana straight to the bathroom. “Shirt off,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. It was the voice of a caretaker, one who knew the ritual. Ana complied, wincing as the fabric tugged at the adhesive bandage.
Nevaieh’s hands were clinical again under the bright vanity lights. She peeled back the clear dressing with a careful, practiced precision. The tattoo beneath was angry and swollen, the black lines standing in sharp relief against the inflamed skin. She cleaned it once more with a gentle, antiseptic wipe, the citrus scent cutting through the room.
“Looks good,” Nevaieh judged, her eyes critical, appraising her own work. “Really good.” She applied a new layer of ointment, her touch impossibly light. Ana watched her reflection in the mirror—the intense focus on Nevaieh’s face, the way her own body was pliant under those knowledgeable hands.
“You’re really good at this,” Ana said quietly.
“At this part?” Nevaieh asked, not looking up. “Or the hurting-you part?”
“Both.”
Nevaieh finally met her eyes in the glass. A flicker of something complex—pride, maybe, and a touch of fear—passed through her gaze. She finished taping the new bandage in place. “Lie down on your back. Keep the pressure off it.”
In the bedroom, Ana settled onto the cool sheets. The ache was a deep, persistent throb now, settling into her bones. Nevaieh disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water and two ibuprofen. “For the swelling,” she said, handing them over. Ana swallowed them obediently.
Nevaieh then moved around the room, turning off the overhead light, leaving only the ribbon of city light from the balcony door. She kicked off her shoes, stripped down to her boxers and tank top, and slid into bed beside Ana. She didn’t reach for her immediately. She just lay on her side, propped on an elbow, looking down at Ana’s face in the semi-darkness.
“You okay?” she asked. Her voice was soft, stripped of all its earlier bravado.
“Yeah.” Ana turned her head on the pillow. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”
Nevaieh nodded. Her finger traced the line of Ana’s jaw, then her lower lip. “You scared me for a second. When you cried.”
“They weren’t sad tears.”
“I know.” Nevaieh’s thumb brushed the corner of her eye. “That’s what scared me. The good stuff… it’s heavier.”
The raw honesty of the statement hung between them. Ana caught her hand, lacing their fingers together. The silence stretched, comfortable and deep, filled only with the hum of the fridge and the far-off drone of a jet. Nevaieh played with Ana’s fingers, her gaze drifting from their joined hands to Ana’s face, then out to the sliver of neon skyline.
“So,” Nevaieh said, her tone shifting, becoming almost casual. “That thing I do. Taking you through there.” She nodded toward the balcony. “And here.” Her hand gestured vaguely at the space between them on the bed.
“What about it?”
“I want to do the other thing, too.” Nevaieh looked back at her, her expression unreadable in the shadows. “The before part. The… regular part.”
Ana blinked. “The regular part.”
“Yeah.” Nevaieh swallowed, a movement Ana saw in the dim light. She looked nervous. “Like. I want to take you out. On a date. A real one. Where I pick you up. And we go somewhere. And I pay. And we talk about shit that isn’t just… this.”
Ana’s heart did a slow, surprised roll in her chest. “This” was the tattoo, the sex, the biting intensity that defined their every interaction. “A date,” she repeated, the word feeling foreign on her tongue.
“Is that stupid?” Nevaieh’s voice was tight, defensiveness creeping in. “Forget it. It’s—”
“No.” Ana squeezed her hand, hard. “It’s not stupid. I just… I didn’t think you did that.”
“I don’t,” Nevaieh said quickly. “Usually. But I want to. With you.” She paused, searching Ana’s face. “I want to know what you order when you’re not just picking at my food. I want to make you laugh in public. I want to…” She exhaled, frustrated. “I want to walk next to you without my hands all over you. See if I can do it.”
The vulnerability in the admission was staggering. It was a different kind of exposure than the balcony had been. This was Nevaieh, laying down a weapon. Ana lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to Nevaieh’s knuckles. She tasted ink and soap. “Okay,” she said, her voice quiet against her skin.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. A real date.” A smile spread across Ana’s face, genuine and slow. “You’re gonna pick me up?”
“Hell yeah, I’m gonna pick you up,” Nevaieh said, a grin breaking through her tentative expression. Relief flooded her features. “I’ll even be on time. Probably.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Ana teased, shifting slightly and wincing at the throb in her side.
Nevaieh’s smile softened. She leaned down, her lips hovering over Ana’s. “Can I kiss you? It won’t hurt the…?”
“The tattoo’s on my ribs, not my mouth,” Ana whispered, and closed the distance.