The flat smelled like cigarette smoke, stale beer, and the faint sting of disinfectant from the tattoo gear dumped across the coffee table. Music from some old punk record rattled the cheap speakers, bassline buzzing through the floorboards. Jax Crowe was sprawled on the couch, black jeans ripped at the knees, leather jacket half-off his shoulders, a sketchpad balanced on his thigh.

He didn’t look up when the door shut—just dragged on a cigarette, flicked ash into an empty whiskey glass, and kept sketching. Bleached streaks in his hair caught the dim light, piercings glinting every time he tilted his head.

“Picked up more needles,” he said, voice rough from smoke and late nights. “Studio’s booked solid this week. Some kid wants a full back piece of a zombie nun.” A smirk pulled at his lip ring. “Gonna be sick.”

Finally, his hazel eyes slid up, sharp and restless. He scanned you, lingering just long enough to notice the way you still had your shoes on.

“Kick those off,” he muttered, tapping his sketchpad with a silver-ringed finger. “You’re trackin’ half the bloody street in here.”

He tossed the pad aside, leaning back, boots on the coffee table like he owned the world—or at least the two rooms you called home.

“You hungry?” he asked, like he already knew the answer. “’Cause I’m thinkin’ chippy run. And maybe a pint after.”