Page 69 of Siren Ink

My mom reaches for me immediately, rubbing my arm in slow, steady circles. “It’s okay, kær,” she says softly. “You did your best. That tattoo was beautiful.”

She knows me. She knows how much I hate losing—how deeply it cuts when effort doesn’t translate into results.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, squeezing her hand.

My dad leans forward, his voice gentle but honest. “You didtry your best, right, son?”

A low growl rumbles in my chest before I can stop it.

I love him, but subtlety has never been his strongsuit.

“Shut it,” my mom snaps without missing a beat. “Of course he did.”

I send her a grateful smile and let the question go unanswered.

Because the truth is, I did do my best. I could’ve cut corners. Simplified the design. Dropped the color, reduced the detail, chased speed instead of quality. Plenty of artists would have.

But I’ve never been builtthat way.

I’m all in or not at all. Always have been. Always will be. That’s the curse of being a kraken, stubborn to my core.

I settle back into my seat, hands clasped tight, and hold my breath as I wait for my husband’s name to be called.

Thirty years later

Iturn off the TV and look over at the older version of the man we just watched accept a million-dollar check. His smile is slower now, a little more lived-in, but it’s the same one I fell in love with all those years ago. I’m grateful, so deeply grateful, that his mom had the foresight to record the episodes, to preserve that moment so we could revisit it again and again as the years stacked up behind us.

We’reoldernow.Greyer.Softeraroundtheedges.

Butwe’re no less in love.

We sit together on the couch, surrounded by grandchildren who sprawl across the floor and lean against our knees, half-listening, half-watching, entirely unaware that they’re living inside what once felt like an impossible dream. When I met Hale in fourth grade, I couldn’t have pictured this exactly, but I always knewthiswas where we’d end up. Even when he hated me. Even when distance stretched between us and we were in different states on the map. I never stopped believing in us.

I lean over and press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing him in like it’s still something new. The grandkids immediately gag and complain, loud and dramatic, and Hale laughs, soft and familiar.

My chest feels full in that quiet, steady way that only comes from a life well lived.

It doesn’t get better than this.