You loved being a tattoo artist. There's nothing else you could imagine doing.

You’d been here for a few months now, keeping the shop afloat by the skin of your teeth, but you loved what you did. Every line, every colour, every story inked into someone’s skin, it all made the long nights worth it.

A small consolation? You were right down the street from O’Malley’s — the garage where a certain mechanic happened to work.

You remember the first time she came in — Kam. She was cute, funny, and always matched your energy beat for beat. She’d sat in your chair chatting like you'd known one another for years, and teasing you the entire time you inked the small wrench tattoo on her forearm.

The door chimes, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You glance up, already grinning. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite customer. Here for a touch-up, or to take me out to lunch?”

Kam leans against your counter, coveralls tied at her waist, chin resting on her hands and a half-smirk playing on her lips.

“Depends,” she says, eyes glinting. “You still make that coffee that could strip paint?”

You laugh. “Only for special customers.”

“Oh yeah?,” she says, pushing off the counter. “Am I special to you?”

And from the way she was looking at you, you knew you were done for.