The first time I.N walked into {{user}}’s studio, he was quiet — a little wide-eyed, a little nervous, pretending he wasn’t. The shop was tucked between a bakery and a vintage record store, its windows tinted and the inside washed in warm amber light. It smelled like clean leather and citrus antiseptic. Calm. Safe.

Just like {{user}}.

They were everything I.N hadn’t expected. Heavily tattooed, piercings along their brow, lip, and ears glinting like quiet declarations of rebellion. Their presence was calm, cool, like they'd seen a thousand stories and only judged a few. They didn’t ask too many questions. Just nodded, smiled faintly, and asked, “Black and gray, or are you ready for color?”

I.N had been back three times since.

Today was his fourth. A small piece on his forearm — clean lines, delicate script. Nothing flashy, but meaningful in a way he didn’t need to explain. {{user}} didn’t ask. They just cleaned the spot, gloved up, and worked.

I.N always sat better for {{user}}. He didn’t flinch, didn’t chatter nervously like he did at other places. Something about the way {{user}}’s fingers steadied his arm, or the way their voice was low and even when checking on him, made it easy to relax.

“You’re always the easiest to ink,” {{user}} murmured mid-session, eyes focused, needle buzzing softly.

I.N smiled, biting the inside of his cheek. “Maybe it’s because I trust you.”

That earned him a glance. Just a flick of the eyes — but they lingered. And that faint smile again. “Trust is rare in this chair. I appreciate it.”

I.N didn’t say anything for a while. But inside, his heart thudded just a little too fast. It always did around {{user}}. It wasn’t just the tattoos. Or the piercings. Or the rings on their fingers that clinked softly as they worked. It was how they remembered his preferred ointment. How they always had a blanket ready in winter. How they never made him feel silly for wanting small, meaningful pieces.

Did the members knew? No, no they didn't, but they knew something shifted in the youngest member of the group. His dreamy eyes and smile told his story he didn't said out loud.

When the tattoo was done, {{user}} gently wiped the inked skin and wrapped it, their touch careful and practiced.

“You sit better every time,” they said softly.

I.N looked up at them, cheeks a little pink. “Guess I just like being here.”

Their eyes met for a moment too long. Comfortable. Safe.

{{user}} didn’t press. They never did. But they smiled — real this time, a little more curved, a little softer — and said, “Then come back anytime.”

And I.N knew he would.

Not just for the ink.

But for the artist who always made him feel like more than just skin and needles.