CHAPTER 312

CHAPTER 312
ZION

I slid my fingers through her hair, pushing the messy strands back from her face so I could see every flicker in those blue eyes. She looked up at me—still a little wary, still a little soft from the nap, still the most beautiful fucking thing I’d ever seen.

“You ready?” I asked, voice low, thumb brushing the apple of her cheek.

“How can I be ready if I don’t even know what’s going on?” She gave me that exasperated half-smile, the one that always made my chest do something stupid.

I grinned back—wide, unapologetic—because she had no idea what was coming and I loved that she still trusted me enough to follow anyway.

“Come on,” I said, tugging her gently toward the door.

“You’ll see.”

She rolled her eyes but let me lead her out, fingers laced tight with mine like she was afraid I’d disappear if she let go.

The others trailed behind us—Clark already whispering some dumbass commentary to Harry, Ro silent as a shadow, all of us moving like we’d rehearsed this a hundred times.

The tattoo shop was only ten minutes away, tucked in a quiet side street with blacked-out windows and a single neon sign that buzzed faintly: Ink & Iron.

Chad had the place closed for us tonight—no walk-ins, no interruptions, just our crew and the low hum of machines warming up.

I pushed the door open.

The bell jingled once.

The smell of antiseptic and fresh ink hit us immediately—clean, sharp, familiar.

Winter stopped dead in the doorway.

The shop was dim, lit mostly by warm Edison bulbs and the glow of the stations.

Chad stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, arms already sleeved in black-and-grey work, giving us a nod like this was just another Thursday.

The boys fanned out behind us—Clark immediately heading for the leather couch like he owned it,

Harry leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, Ro taking up silent post near the door.

Winter’s eyes darted around—taking in the flash sheets on the walls, the gleaming stations, the quiet buzz of a machine being tested—then snapped back to me.

“I'm getting a tattoo?” she asked, voice rising on the last word, excitement bleeding through the confusion.

I grinned—slow, deliberate.

“You are.”

Winter’s head whipped between us, chewing her bottom lip—still a little swollen, still healing, but the habit was so fucking cute it hurt.

“Just me?” she repeated, eyes bouncing from Harry to Clark to Ro to me.

Clark snorted from the couch, already sprawled like he owned the place, one ankle crossed over his knee.

“I mean, I’m here for moral support. And snacks. Mostly snacks.”

He held up a bag of chips he’d somehow manifested from nowhere 

“And maybe to film the part where you cry and blame it on the needle. For the group chat. Purely educational content. And blackmail.”

Harry rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might fall out.

“You’re here because you’d throw a tantrum if we left you in the car,” he said flatly.

Clark gasped—hand to chest.

“Tantrum? I prefer ‘passionate protest.’ And for the record, I’m emotionally invested. This is a milestone. My baby girl’s getting her first ink. I need to be here for the tears and the triumph.”

One corner of Ro's mouth lifted in that rare, lopsided smirk he saved for when he was actually amused.

“I’m here to make sure Clark doesn’t faint first,” he said, voice low and dry.

“Last time he watched someone get inked he passed out and hit his head on the counter. We’re not paying for another concussion.”

Clark gasped—hand to chest.

“That was one time! And it was the smell of the green soap! Not the needle! I’m not scared of needles, I’m just… sensitive to hygiene products.”

Winter’s laugh slipped out—

"You’re all ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head, but the suspicion in her eyes had melted into something warmer—excitement, trust, maybe even a little joy.

“I’m in. Whatever it is… if you guys want me to get a tattoo… I’ll do it. Alone.”

I stepped in front of her, hands sliding to her waist—gentle, thumbs brushing the dip above her hips.

“No fucking way it’s just you,” I said, voice dropping low, rough,

“We’re both getting ink tonight. Matching. Something small, something ours. Something that says we made it through hell and came out the other side still holding on to each other.”

Her breath caught.

Her eyes—those beautiful blue eyes—searched mine like she was trying to find the catch.

“You’re serious?” she whispered.

“Dead serious.” I leaned in, forehead resting against hers for a second.

“I want your mark on me. Permanent. Right over my heart. And I want mine on you. Wherever you want it. But I want it to match. I want us to carry each other forever, Snowflake. No more almost-losing-you. No more wondering if tomorrow’s gonna take you away. Just us. Marked. Claimed. Together.”

Her eyes shimmered—tears, but the good kind. She swallowed hard, then nodded—small, certain.

“Okay,” she breathed.

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Clark, of course, shattered the moment like he was paid to do it.

“Matching tattoos? Oh my God, you two are disgusting. I need a drink and a therapist. This is peak couple goals and I hate it. I hate everything about it.”

Harry snorted from the wall, arms still crossed.

“You’re just jealous you don’t have anyone to get matching ink with. Unless you’re planning to tattoo your own face on your ass.”

Clark clutched his chest.

“Rude. Accurate, but rude. And for the record, if I ever get a tattoo of my own face, it’s going on my bicep so I can flex at it every morning and remind myself how pretty I am.”

Ro replied—low, deadpan, one corner of his mouth twitching.

“You’d flex at your own ass tattoo too. Don’t lie.”

Clark gasped. “Ro! My stoic king has jokes now? The apocalypse is here."

I tuned out their banter, knowing from experience they’d be there all day—and kissed my girl—soft, slow, right there in front of everyone—because I didn’t give a fuck who saw.

She kissed me back like she was sealing the same promise.

When we broke apart, Clark wolf-whistled from the couch.

“Get a room, you two! Or at least let Chad finish setting up before you start dry-humping in the lobby.”

I flipped Clark off without looking away from her.

“Ready?” I asked again, quieter.

She smiled—small, real, bright.

“Ready.”

I took her hand—laced our fingers together—and led her toward Chad's station.

Forever started tonight.

And I was never letting her go again.

As Winter settled down on the chair—Chad immediately started fussing with the armrest angle like he was prepping a throne instead of a tattoo station.

I tilted my head at Ro, sprawled on the sofa with his coffee sitting untouched in front of him, steam long gone. His eyes were distant—somewhere else entirely, locked on whatever ghosts he kept locked up tight.

“You alright, Ro?”

He looked up at me, mask down for once.

He held my gaze for a second, then dropped it back to the mug.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

“Just been thinking about shit. You and Winter—” He cut himself off, jaw working like he was chewing on the words. Then he sighed—long, heavy.

“Just… take it from me. You’ve got a really fucking rare thing with her. Hang on to her, okay?”

I stared down at him.

Whatever he was seeing in his head right now was heavy enough to make even him flinch.

There was so much I wanted to ask—what happened? Who hurt you? Why do you look like you’re carrying someone else’s grave?—but I knew him.

Push too hard and he’d shut down, walk out, disappear into that quiet place he went when the world got too loud. So I didn’t push.

“I will,” I said instead, voice low.

“You know I’m always here for you though, right? I’ve got your back.”

He met my eyes again—brief, grateful. A small smile flickered across his lips, there and gone.

“Yeah. I know.”

I squeezed his shoulder—firm, steady—then let go.

“Royal! Get over here!” Chad’s voice cut through the shop like a chainsaw.

Ro huffed a quiet laugh—more air than sound—and pushed himself up.

“Guess that’s my cue,” I said.

We moved toward the tattoo station.

Winter was already lying back on the reclined chair, and Chad perched on the stool next to her, gloved up, machine humming softly on the tray.

Chad looked up as we approached, grin splitting wide.

“Alright, Daring,” he said, spinning the stool to face her fully.

“Moment of truth. Where do you want it, and what are we putting on you?”

Winter propped herself up on her elbows—and glanced at me first. I gave her a small nod—your call, baby—and she turned back to Chad.

She chewed her lip for a second—thinking—then lifted her left wrist, turning it palm-up.

“Here,” she said quietly.

“Something small. Simple. I want… a tiny snowflake.”

Chad’s grin softened—genuine this time.

“Snowflake. Classic. I like it.” He tilted his head, studying her wrist.

“Right here on the inside. Perfect spot.”

Winter nodded. “Yeah.”

Chad’s eyes flicked to me too—quick, knowing—then back to her.

“Got it. And for you, Z?” he asked, already reaching for the stencil paper.

I didn’t hesitate.

“Same spot,” I said.

“Same design. Mirror image. Inside my right wrist. So when we hold hands, they line up.”

Winter’s breath caught—small, audible. Her eyes snapped to mine, wide and shimmering.

“You’re really doing this?” she whispered.

I stepped closer, took her hand again—palm to palm, wrists aligned.

“Yeah,” I said softly.

“I want your mark on me. Right where I can see it every time I look down. Every time I reach for you. Every time I remember how close I came to losing you—and how fucking grateful I am that I didn’t.”

Her eyes filled—tears brimming but not falling. She squeezed my hand hard.

“Together,” she said again, voice cracking just a little.

“Together,” I echoed.

Chad cleared his throat—dramatically, of course.

“Okay, lovebirds, save the vows for the wedding. I’ve got work to do.”

He spun back to the tray, already sketching the tiny outline.

“One snowflake each. Clean, minimalist, no bullshit. You’ll be in and out in twenty minutes. Who’s first?”

Winter looked at me—small, nervous smile tugging at her lips.

“You,” she said.

“I want to watch you get it done first.”

I grinned—slow, easy.

“Deal.”

I sat in the chair. Chad prepped my wrist—wipe, stencil, transfer.

The buzz of the machine started up, low and steady.

Winter stood beside me—hand in mine—watching every line Chad laid down like it was the most important thing she’d ever seen.

When it was done—small, perfect snowflake in black outline on the inside of my left wrist—I held it up to her.

“Your turn,” I said softly.

She climbed into the chair—slow, careful. Chad prepped her wrist the same way.

She didn’t flinch when the needle touched skin—just squeezed my hand tighter, eyes locked on mine.

I leaned in close—forehead to hers—while Chad worked.

“You’re doing great,” I whispered.

“So fucking brave.”

She smiled—small, shaky, but real.

“It’s you,” she whispered back.

“It’s us. I’m not scared.”

Chad finished in minutes—clean lines, perfect symmetry. He wiped her wrist, wrapped it in cling film, then sat back.

“Done. Matching snowflakes. No take-backs.”

Winter stared at her wrist—then at mine—then at me.

“They line up,” she said, voice thick.

“Yeah,” I said, voice rough. “They do.”

She reached for me—hand sliding to the back of my neck—and pulled me down into a kiss. Soft. Slow. Full of everything we’d survived.

When we broke apart, the shop was quiet—Clark unusually silent, Harry smirking, Ro giving one small nod of approval.

Winter looked at me—eyes shining.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I kissed her forehead—lingering.

“Thank you,” I said.

“For being here. For being mine.”

She smiled—small, perfect, alive.

“Always.”