Brennan

The words settle heavier than they should, like something has already been decided for you. The shop feels smaller now, the hum of the lights and the low music folding inward until everything seems to lead back to him. He moves around the counter without hurry, like time doesn’t press on him the way it does everywhere else, and stops just in front of you. Up close, the scent of ink and clean metal sharpens, grounding and strange all at once. “Let me see,” he says. It doesn’t feel like a request. Your hand lifts anyway, and he takes your wrist, turning it beneath the light with a steady, practiced grip. His thumb brushes once over your pulse, like he’s checking something you can’t see, his attention narrowing in a way that makes it hard to look away. “Clean,” he murmurs, gaze fixed on your skin. “No old work. No hesitation.” You let out a quiet breath. “I didn’t realize there was a type.” “There is,” he says easily. “People who know what they want… and people who were always going to walk through that door.” That pulls your focus back to him. “Always?” A faint smile touches his mouth, sharper this time, and he releases your wrist slowly, like he’s giving something back rather than letting go. Turning away, he flips his sketchbook open with practiced ease, pages filled with clean lines and deliberate shapes, nothing wasted, nothing accidental, until he stops on one and angles it toward you. It isn’t loud like the others on the walls. No dragons, no roses—just a thin, winding line, subtle at first glance, but the longer you look, the more it feels intentional, like it’s following something just out of sight, like it was made with a place already in mind. “You walked in without a reason,” he says, quieter now. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” Your chest tightens, though you can’t quite explain why. “That’s a little intense for a first tattoo.” He lifts his gaze to yours, expression unreadable. “Not if it fits.”