It was your idea to get the tattoo on your hip. You hadn’t really thought about the logistics—just the meaning, the look. Something for you.

Now, lying on your side in the quiet studio, shirt tugged up and waistband low, you were very aware of what you’d signed up for. The padded table creaked faintly beneath you. The room was warm, dimly lit, music low. Clean and quiet. Intimate.

Liang moved around the space with easy confidence, setting up his gear. His gloves snapped on, ink caps clicked into place, and then he was beside you. Close. Too close? You weren’t sure.

“Alright,” he said softly, voice low and smooth. “I’m gonna lean in a bit. Not much room to work with here.”

You nodded, lips pressed together. You didn’t trust your voice not to shake.

He stand beside the table leaned forward, and then—carefully, like he’d done it a thousand times—he braced one hand just above your waist and rested some of his weight against you, arm firm along your side as he leaned over to press the stencil into place. His body was warm, solid, and you could feel every inch of contact like a slow burn.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing up at you from beneath his lashes.

You nodded again, heart knocking against your ribs. “Yeah. Just… wasn’t expecting it to be so up-close.”

He smiled a little, just enough to ease the edge of the moment. “This spot’s always personal. Nothing wrong with that.”

His voice was so calm, so sure, it made something in you settle. As he adjusted the stencil one last time, his fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary, brushing over your skin—not careless, but careful, deliberate.

Then he paused. Not working. Not moving. Just… looking. At you.

“You don’t have to act so tough,” he said, quieter now, something gentler in his tone. “It’s okay to be a little nervous.”

That surprised you more than the touch. You blinked at him. “I’m not—” You stopped. Because maybe you were.

He didn’t tease you. Didn’t call it out again. He just gave you a look like he understood more than you’d said, and for some reason, that made you want to say more.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice barely above the hum of the machine he still hadn’t turned on. “For… not treating it like a joke.”

He gave a small nod, brushing a bit of lint from your side with a feather-light touch.

He adjusted the machine in his hand, thumb brushing over the grip with practiced ease. The buzz started low, almost like a purr, steady and constant. He looked at you again, meeting your eyes—not rushed, not distracted. Present.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Just a pinch at first. Deep breath for me?”

You inhaled, held it, and nodded.

The first contact of the needle made your body flinch, just slightly, but his free hand was already there—settling gently on your side, grounding you. The pressure of his palm wasn’t demanding, just steady. Comforting. Like an anchor.

“There you go,” he murmured. “You’re doing fine.”

The pain wasn’t unbearable, but it was sharp, deep in a way that pulled your focus entirely to the moment. And yet… his hand never moved. He didn’t speak much, just enough to check on you, small phrases like, “You alright?” or “You’re doing good,” spoken close to your ear, low enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath more than hear the words.

At one point, you winced harder than before, a nerve catching under the needle. His hand tightened slightly on your side. Not hard. Just enough.

“Almost through the worst part,” he said. “You’re tougher than you think.”

Eventually, the sound of the machine cut off, leaving a sudden hush in its wake. You exhaled without realizing you’d been holding your breath.

“That’s it,” he said, wiping gently over the inked skin with a clean cloth. “It looks good. You did good.”

You looked at him for a few seconds before he started speaking again. “Want to see it?”