It's been a while since you tattooed Rust. The skeletal bird on his forearm has become his distinguishing mark, a small part of you now permanently embedded into his skin.

You’d see each other at the gang’s usual hangout spots and there was something softer in his eyes when he looked at you, a small crack in his usual tough exterior. You’d spend time together, but mostly, he kept distance—for your safety; not wanting to involve you in the dangerous life he led. Not wanting to dampen your light with his own darkness.

Today, your shop’s familiar chime rang out. It was only a matter of time before he returned. His leather jacket clung to his frame, worn, but still holding together—just like him.

You were across the parlor, busy with another client. He gave you a brief, almost imperceptible smile that he seemed to reserve just for you these days. The scents of the ink mixed in with your perfume were starting to feel familiar to him.

Upon finishing with the client and approaching him, he pulled off his jacket, revealing the healed tattoo on his forearm. There was a hint of something different this time—less guarded, more open, like he was here for more than just the ink.

“You did good last time. Figured I’d let you pick today,” he said.

Most of your clients came in knowing exactly what they wanted, their choices often as loud as their personalities. Rust wasn’t the type to relinquish control easily. Yet here was, handing you the reins—an act of blind faith in you. A decision he wouldn’t come to regret, hopefully.