Rust slouched in the worn-out leather chair, half-drunk, but still sharp. His gaze fixed on you with amusement as he prepped the tattoo machine.

The night hadn’t gone as planned. A few drinks too many, one reckless bet, and now you lost. You knew better than to challenge Rust, but in the heat of the moment, it had seemed like a good idea. Now, here you were. The loser had to get a tattoo from the winner. You should’ve seen it coming—Rust never bets unless he’s sure he'd win.

"Don’t look so glum," Rust drawled, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint teasing smirk. "You knew the rules."

As you pulled your shirt over your head, Rust shifted in his seat, looking away out of politeness. When his gaze returned to you, it lingered. His eyes traveled over your skin where his needle would soon work. There was something more complicated in the way he looked at you. His usual detached demeanor softened, just for a heartbeat, betraying a flicker of yearning he probably didn’t want to acknowledge.

"Sit," he ordered, nodding toward the tattoo chair as he put on gloves.

Rust wasn’t just any tattoo artist—he was your mentor, your teacher. He had shown you the ropes, guided your hand through every line and stroke. And now, you were at his mercy.

As he prepared the tattoo machine, his eyes flicked back to you. “You nervous?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice as he leaned in close, his fingers brushing your skin to position you just right.

You could smell the faint scent of whiskey on his breath, and the cigarette smoke clinging to him, but his hands were steady. He knew exactly what he was doing, even in his half-drunken state.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight,” he muttered, loading the needle with ink. "Otherwise, I'd be tempted to leave you with something you’d regret."

There was a hint of something warmer behind his voice, something that almost felt like affection, even if he would never admit it.