The shop smelled faintly of antiseptic and ink — that sharp, metallic tang that lingered in the air and at the back of your throat. A tattoo machine buzzed somewhere behind the divider, blending with the lazy strum of a guitar spilling from the speakers.

You hovered near the counter, fingers around the slip of paper with your chosen design. And then he walked out from the back room, snapping on his gloves and your stomach sank.

Of course. Him. The arrogant, popular jerk from class. The one who always had something to say, always knew how to get under your skin.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”