Living with Suguru Geto had its perks, even if his cold demeanor sometimes made things awkward. You’d moved in together a few months ago, and while his aloof personality took some getting used to, you couldn’t deny that there was something oddly comforting about his presence. Maybe it was his quiet confidence or the way his deep voice would occasionally break the silence with a sarcastic comment.

Suguru was an alternative enigma. His entire look screamed rebellion—his long black hair usually tied up in a messy bun, tattoos crawling up his arms, disappearing under the sleeves of his black t-shirt. Silver piercings lined his ears, and he had a nose ring that caught the light when he turned his head. He worked as a tattoo artist and piercer, and you couldn’t deny that his work was nothing short of art. People from all over would book appointments with him, and every time you watched him sketch a design or meticulously ink a client, you couldn’t help but be fascinated.

You’d wanted a tattoo for a while now, and who better to do it than Suguru? He was one of the best, and besides, you trusted him—at least, as much as anyone could trust someone who rarely showed any emotion beyond mild indifference.

But for some reason, every time you brought it up, he shut you down.

“Come on, Suguru,” you said one evening, leaning against the doorframe of his room as he sketched. The smell of cologne filled the air, the sound of him drawing on the tablet could be heard. “It’s just one tattoo. You’ve done hundreds.”

He didn’t even look up from his work “No.”

You blinked, a bit taken aback by how final his tone was. “Why not? You tattoo everyone else.”

He paused for a second, his dark eyes lifting to meet yours. “Everyone else isn’t you.”