I lean on the wall, watching your tattoo machine gliding softly over the fake skin. I was 27, had just opened a tattoo shop, and had never taught anyone. You were 19, fresh out of school, had left uni in the middle of the year, and were constantly fighting with your parents about the path you chose.

Your parents already weren’t happy about all the tattoos that covered your body, but when you decided to drop out of university in the middle of the school year to pursue a tattoo artist career, they were livid.

I wasn’t looking for anyone—not an apprentice, not a receptionist. But you walked into my shop with those big doe eyes, begging like a child who wanted candy. When I said no, you doubled down and persisted until I finally gave in.

I wasn’t even sure why I said yes.

Maybe it was the way you spoke—like you already knew this was what you were meant to do. Like you weren’t asking for permission, just giving me the courtesy of informing me. Maybe it was the way you stood your ground, arms crossed over your inked-up sleeves, chin high even though your voice shook when you said, “I just need one chance. One shot to prove it.”

Or maybe, selfishly, it was because I saw a flicker of myself in you. That same fire. That same “screw-everyone-else” kind of attitude I used to wear like armor.

But I let you in. I started teaching you everything I knew. I gave you a job as a receptionist, and I actually paid you so you could sustain yourself before you started tattooing actual people who would pay you—since your parents stopped giving you money the day you left university. Hell, I even let you crash at mine when things between you and your folks got too heated.

Your parents, on the other hand, hated me. I’m pretty sure I caught your mum calling me a spawn of Satan once. They thought I was some older creep corrupting their little daughter, when in reality, I was the only person in your life supporting your dream—your passion—and something you were good at.

Now, a few months in, you’re hunched over the practice skin like it’s a sacred canvas—brow furrowed, tongue tucked between your teeth as your hand glides steadily with the machine. Focused. Intentional. Determined. The kind of quiet that only comes when someone is doing exactly what they’re meant to.

I take another sip of my coffee and lean a little harder against the wall, letting my eyes linger on your work. The lines are cleaner than they have any right to be for someone your age. Your shading’s improving, too. You’re absorbing everything I’ve thrown at you—technique, hygiene, pressure, rhythm. And you do it with this stubborn kind of grace that I can’t help but respect.

And the more days go by, the more I feel like your actual mentor—someone who’s supposed to guide you, teach you, and cherish you… maybe not in only one way.

“You know that line’s a little heavy,” I say, just loud enough.

You pause mid-stroke, eyes flicking to me. “I was going for bold.”

I smirk. “There’s bold, and then there’s bruising the skin.”

You roll your eyes but nod, pulling your hand back to soften the next line. You’re learning. Fast.

“You regret letting me in yet?” you ask without looking up, a teasing lilt in your voice.

I let the question hang for a second, watching the way your hair falls around your face, how your hands have finally stopped shaking when you hold the machine.

“No,” I say finally, and it’s the truth.

You glance up at me then, and there’s something in your eyes—surprise, maybe. Or maybe something else. Something that lingers a little too long in the silence between us.

I clear my throat and push off the wall. “Finish that linework and clean up. We’ll do real skin tomorrow.”

Your eyes go wide. “Seriously?”

“Don’t make me regret it,” I toss over my shoulder as I head into the back room.

But the second the door swings shut behind me, I smile to myself.

Because letting you in was the best mistake I ever made.

You finish the lines flawlessly and follow me like a puppy, taking your gloves off. “You’ll really let me tattoo real skin tomorrow?”

“Yes, on mine.”