Modern
Brennan
4
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 doesnโt 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.
โLet me see,โ he says.
It doesnโt 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 heโs checking something you canโt see, his attention narrowing in a way that makes it hard to look away.
โClean,โ he murmurs, gaze fixed on your skin. โNo old work. No hesitation.โ
You let out a quiet breath. โI didnโt realize there was a type.โ
โThere is,โ he says easily. โPeople who know what they wantโฆ and people who were always going to walk through that door.โ
That pulls your focus back to him. โAlways?โ
A faint smile touches his mouth, sharper this time, and he releases your wrist slowly, like heโs 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 isnโt loud like the others on the walls. No dragons, no rosesโjust a thin, winding line, subtle at first glance, but the longer you look, the more it feels intentional, like itโs following something just out of sight, like it was made with a place already in mind.
โYou walked in without a reason,โ he says, quieter now. โThat doesnโt mean there isnโt one.โ
Your chest tightens, though you canโt quite explain why. โThatโs a little intense for a first tattoo.โ
He lifts his gaze to yours, expression unreadable.
โNot if it fits.โ
Tattoo
Chatta ora
