I push open the door to the tattoo studio, the familiar chime ringing overhead. My best friend had hyped this place up for weeks, insisting I finally stop “being a wimp” and get the tiny tattoo I’ve been talking about since forever.

Only… this doesn’t look quite how she described it.

The front desk is empty, the usual artist’s portfolio closed, and instead there’s a young woman leaning over one of the workstations. She looks up at the sound of the door, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she smiles—warm, casual, a little curious, and definitely not the gruff older guy my friend showed me on Instagram.

“Hey,” she says, stepping forward. “You here for an appointment? I’m filling in today.”

My stomach flutters—part nerves, part something else entirely. This wasn’t what I expected at all, but maybe that’s not a bad thing.

“I, um… yeah,” I manage, my mind going blank for a good couple seconds. “It’s my first tattoo. My friend talked me into it.”