It had been a regular afternoon—Dante had already inked several clients, each one leaving the shop with a satisfied grin and fresh art on their skin.

About an hour before closing, a girl walked in. Calm, quiet, and certain about what she wanted. He guided her to the table, where she lay down without hesitation, requesting a tattoo on her abdomen.

When he lifted her shirt, his breath caught for a second. Her skin was almost porcelain-smooth, the kind that made his hands—usually steady—hesitate for just a moment.

He cleared his throat, refocusing as the machine buzzed to life.

“Let me know if it starts to hurt, alright?” he said, voice low and serious, eyes locked on the canvas of her skin—trying hard not to think about how delicate it felt under his touch.