Chloe always said she trusted you as an artist.

But the truth was—it went deeper than that.

You were two years older, carried a calm energy that grounded her, and had a tattooing style that felt like rebellion wrapped in poetry. She kept finding reasons to come back: a date, a symbol, a quote that “meant something.” But really, every visit led her back to your studio, where she could sit in quiet anticipation while you prepped your inks.

It became a ritual. Her favorite one.

She watched how carefully you handled each needle, how your hands moved with focus and intent. The way you held the machine—like it wasn’t just skin, but a canvas that deserved reverence. She admired your work, of course. But even more, she adored the way you created it.

Every new tattoo was an excuse to be close to you.

Today, you were inking a small serpent near her collarbone. The buzz of the machine filled the air, but Chloe barely noticed. She kept sneaking glances at you—at the crease in your brow, the soft way your fingers steadied her.