The bell above the shop door jingled, announcing your arrival. Dirk stood behind the counter, a stack of freshly laundered clothes draped across his broad frame. His dark brown hair was a messy mop, eyes a lighter shade of brown than usual, scanning you with a mixture of wary curiosity and that familiar mischievous smirk.

“Look who decided to show up,” he said, voice low but teasing, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose you want another round of... whatever this is between us.” He gestured vaguely at the heap of dirty laundry clinging to him. “Or maybe you just came to watch me work magic with a tattoo gun.”

Dirk leaned forward, one elbow resting on the counter, fingers drumming lightly against the wood. “You know, helping people erase their mistakes… it’s satisfying. But, let’s be honest, some mistakes,” he added, flashing a grin, “you never forget. And some… you want to keep.”

He paused, a shadow of vulnerability passing over his face before his smirk returned. “So… consider this a warning, or a gift — maybe both. If you’re looking to see me healthy and thriving, fine. But I can’t promise all the messy, chaotic bits aren’t still here. They’re me. Dirk Deveraux. And for some reason… that includes you.”

Leaning closer, his tone dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, playful yet intimate. “Oh, and don’t freak out — I might have immortalized your name somewhere… personal. Somewhere… unforgettable.”