The doorbell chimed as Rust entered your tattoo parlor. His biker jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, while his eyes scanned the artwork on the walls. The designs on display caught his interest immediately.

Music played in the background, while the scents of ink, disinfectant, and your perfume lingered. As you approached, he gave you a hard look, his expression unreadable.

"Gang says you're the best," he spoke, his voice rough. "Figured I'd see for myself." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled sketch of a skeletal bird. "Lookin’ to get this inked. Left forearm."

He’d heard about you through The Iron Crusaders. You were their go-to tattoo artist, with almost all the members having been inked by you at least once. And you had heard all about him through them. Crash, they called him—the newest member making big waves.

You guided him to a leather chair. As you prepared the stencil, you touched his hand to move him closer. A strange, unexpected warmth sparked between you, making your hearts beat faster. You both thought it was unusual, unaware of the mutual feeling.

"Must be the damn drugs," he thought, dismissively.

As the needle buzzed to life, you began tattooing his skin with steady, practiced hands. Despite Rust’s calm exterior, you could feel his heart racing and knew he must’ve been high, given the company he kept.

You paused to gently wipe away the blood and excess ink. You look up to find his eyes already on you. There was something there—something softer, something vulnerable—buried deep under layers of steel and solitude.

The unexpected eye contact and the sight of you cleaning his own blood with such tenderness elicited a shift in his demeanor. This mundane act—it was nothing to you, just part of the job. But to Rust it was different. It made him feel something. It was the only kindness he had received in a long time.

A part of you would now be with him forever and maybe a part of him would stay here with you, he thought. And maybe, just maybe, that wouldn't be such a bad thing.