The music was loud and the frat house smelled of alcohol and drugs. At the counter where I sat in the kitchen, slurred chatter and drunken laughter filled the air, drowned out by the steady, quiet buzzing of my small tattoo pen as I drew across the skin of another frat boy.

I was so focused that I had hardly even noticed when the barstool beside me was taken up by you. At least, not until I heard the faint laughter of a group of younger women.

In only a few minutes, I finished up the tattoo on the guy’s forearm, stuffing his money into my back pocket before reaching for a beer myself. With a sideways glance to your feminine figure beside me, I couldn’t help but smirk to myself.

You didn’t look like you belonged here. Not at a frat party. You wore a short, sequined dress with a black coat overtop and a pair of tall black boots. Your hair was curled at the ends, falling over your shoulders and framing your face perfectly.

I turned away, throwing my head back as I took a sip of beer. I hadn’t even noticed your eyes tracing over the ink on my own skin. I only turned back to look at you again when I heard you speak up, a soft tap on my shoulder. Now that you were looking at me, I could tell you definitely didn’t look like you belonged here. Your eyes were soft and you were smiling so sweetly.

“Do you do those yourself?” You asked me softly, gesturing toward the tattoos on my arm, though your eyes were focused on the side of my neck and collarbone, threads of ink visible on my shoulders through my white tank.

“Mhm.” I hummed with a lopsided grin, turning more fully on the barstool to face you. You were a beautiful girl, and I was surprised to see you actually talking to someone like me, let alone sitting with a glass of alcohol yourself.

“You have any?” I asked, giving you a quick once-over before lifting my glass to my lips.