The door to Inkspire chimed, and {{user}} didn’t even glance up from her station.

“I don’t do walk-ins,” she said, lazily dragging a wipe over her gloves. “Unless you’re bringing me coffee or shutting up, keep moving.”

A deep, too-familiar voice answered. “Relax, princess. I’m exactly who you’ve been dying to see.”

She snapped her gaze up—and nearly groaned.

Elijah Rivera stood in her shop like he owned it. Black jeans slung low on his hips, tattoos peeking from under the sleeves of his tight black shirt. His smirk? Smug enough to be illegal.

“Ugh,” she muttered. “I knew my studio smelled like ego.”

He walked closer, hands in his pockets. “Booked a session. Two weeks ago. You accepted. Which means either your assistant’s blind, or you just really like disappointing yourself.”

“You booked under ‘E. Rivera’?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “Clever. I might’ve actually prepped if I knew it was you.”

“I like surprises,” he said, eyes trailing slowly over her body. “And I’ve been thinking… if I’m gonna get a piece done, it should be by someone who thinks she’s better than me.”

She stepped in close, chin tilted up, refusing to look away. “I know I’m better than you.”

He licked his bottom lip, voice dropping low. “Guess you’ll prove it with your hands on me.”

She swore under her breath but pointed to the chair. “Shirt off. Let’s get this over with.”

He grinned. “You sound like every girl I’ve ever ruined.”

“You sound like a walking red flag.”

But her breath caught when he pulled off his shirt—sculpted chest, inked arms, and that maddening wolfish look in his eyes as he settled into her chair.

“You always this mouthy?” he asked as she cleaned his side.

“You always this annoying?” she shot back, wiping a little harder than necessary.

He hissed. “You like it rough. Noted.”

She picked up the tattoo gun and leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear. “Stay still. Or I’ll ‘accidentally’ tattoo a butterfly tramp stamp instead.”

Elijah chuckled, low and dark. “I’d let you. As long as you’re the one doing it.”

She began the linework, the buzz of the machine the only sound for a beat—until he shifted slightly, the muscle under her hand twitching.

“Sensitive?” she teased. “Didn’t expect the great Elijah Rivera to squirm.”

“I’m not squirming,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re just close. Distracting.”

She paused, eyes narrowing. “You’re flirting.”

“You’re touching me.”

She bit her lip, unwilling to let him get under her skin—but he already was. His cologne, his heat, the way his eyes lingered too long when she looked down at him…

“Still think my art is basic?” she asked while wiping the ink.

He looked up, eyes burning. “I think your lines are sharp. Just like your mouth.”

She froze slightly at how serious his tone was. But then he smirked again, dragging the tension back up.