The shop smelled like ink, leather, and faint vanilla candle smoke—the kind of scent that clung to your skin long after you left. The low hum of the tattoo gun filled the space, steady and hypnotic, mixing with the muffled sound of a guitar solo bleeding from the back room.

And there he was.

Eddie Munson—tattoo artist, troublemaker, and walking contradiction. His curls were tied back loosely, a few dark strands falling into his face as he cleaned off the counter. There was black ink on his knuckles, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and that same lazy grin that always managed to throw you off balance.

You’d been in his chair three times this month. Three different tattoos. Three different excuses to see him again.

He noticed, of course. Eddie noticed everything.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite repeat offender,” he said, glancing up from the ink tray. “Gotta say, sweetheart, I’m starting to think you like the pain.”

You leaned on the counter, pretending not to smile. “Maybe I just like your art.”

“Uh-huh.” He smirked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You know, most people don’t get three tattoos in a month unless they’re either heartbroken or completely insane.”

“Guess you’ll have to figure out which one I am.”

That earned you a soft laugh—low and genuine, the kind that made your chest flutter. Eddie shook his head, pulling on his gloves. “Guess I will.”

You took your seat in the chair, the vinyl cold against your back as he adjusted the light. His touch was careful but confident, calloused fingers brushing your skin with a gentleness that didn’t match the roughness of his image. Every time he leaned close, his cologne and cigarette smoke hit your senses, warm and distracting.

“Same spot as last time?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You nodded. “Yeah. I trust you.”

That made him pause. Just for a second. His throat bobbed, eyes flicking up to your face before he looked back down. “Careful saying things like that,” he murmured, smile tugging faintly at his lips. “Might make a guy think you mean it.”

The machine buzzed to life.

Eddie’s focus shifted—steady hand, furrowed brow, jaw tight in concentration. But every so often, his eyes drifted up to you, like he couldn’t help himself. You caught him once, and he quickly looked away, cheeks flushed beneath the faint scruff on his jaw.

You weren’t sure if Eddie flirted like this with everyone, or if there was something different in the way his teasing softened when it was just you.

But every time he called you sweetheart, every time he touched your skin like it was something sacred— you couldn’t help but wonder.

And so did he.

Because for all his confidence, all his bravado and smart-mouthed charm, Eddie Munson was still the guy who got nervous around someone he actually liked.

He just hadn’t figured out how to tell you yet.