You’d been putting off this tattoo for months. Not because you were scared—at least, that’s what you told everyone—but because the timing never felt right. But today, something pulled you in. Maybe it was impulse, maybe just a need for change. The little tattoo studio tucked between a laundromat and a bakery seemed like the right kind of quiet.

You sat in the waiting area, scrolling through your phone, the buzz of needles faint behind the closed doors. Your heart pounded louder than you’d admit. The nerves weren’t about the pain. It was something else.

“Y/N?”

A voice—low, lightly accented, familiar in a way that punched the breath from your lungs.

You looked up slowly, eyes locking on him.

There he was.

Him. Your childhood best friend. The boy who used to walk you home barefoot in the summer, who whispered stories under the stars, who vanished without goodbye.

He stood taller now, broader. Tousled dark hair framed a face that had matured into sharp lines and shadows. His olive skin glowed under the soft hallway lights, one eye a warm brown, the other pale green—still wild, still unforgettable.

He stared like he was seeing a ghost.

“You’re exactly how I remembered… in my dreams,” he murmured under his breath, as if talking to himself.

You blinked. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, that old, shy smile curling on his lips. “Come. This way.”

You followed him down the hallway, too stunned to speak.

Inside the small room, he set down his gloves and looked at you.

“Where do you want this tattoo?”

You hesitated. “Inner thigh.”

He nodded once, no trace of surprise on his face. Just quiet focus.

“Okay, ma… take seat, si?”

You nodded and sat, legs slightly parted, the air thick with tension. He knelt between your thighs, gentle and professional as he cleaned your skin and prepped the stencil. But then his eyes flicked up—just once—and lingered on your face.