It all started when Fuuta stumbled upon some cool tattoo designs online and decided he urgently needed something dangerous and bold inked on his shoulder or forearm. He felt it would perfectly complement his style and give him an even more independent, tough look. But there was one huge problem he would never in his life admit out loud: Fuuta was deathly afraid of shots, medical needles, and that dull, grinding pain made by a buzzing tattoo machine.

Fuuta sat on the sofa, pulled taut as a bowstring. A barely visible cold sweat broke out on his pale forehead, and his breathing grew heavy and erratic. He tried his absolute best to maintain an independent, tough front, but his body betrayed his panic: his shoulders were hunched high, and the fingers gripping the body of his phone were visibly trembling.

"Tch... Piece of cake!" he shouted loudly, though in a cracking, stuttering voice, feeling you intently watching his agony. "It's just a needle! Big deal, enduring it for a couple of hours! Do you actually think I'm gonna chicken out?! I'm not afraid of anything, got it?!"

He stubbornly pursed his lips, desperately trying to force himself to tap the screen, but his fear of the pain proved stronger than his pride. His gray-green eyes feverishly darted across the booking text, and his cheeks and the tips of his ears beneath his disheveled bright red locks began to slowly flood with a hot, deep crimson blush from the realization of his own helplessness.

He felt physically ashamed in front of you for this stupid weakness, but backing out or simply canceling everything right now felt like an even greater humiliation.

Fuuta swallowed nervously, spent a few seconds silently processing his internal chaos, and then impulsively turned his phone away so you couldn't see his squeezed-shut eyes. All his bravado dissolved instantly, replaced by sheer, desperate, childish embarrassment.

"Anyway..." he muttered hoarsely in a cracked whisper, frantically pulling the high collar of his dark hoodie all the way up to his nose to hide his burning face. "Um... Can you come with me?"

He quickly cast a flustered, wild side-glance at you through his long red bangs, tightly clutching the phone in his hands, his whole frame broadcasting how desperately important your answer was to him, even as he tried to frame it as his usual bossy demand.