Axel Edwards didn’t think he’d live to see 25. Let alone own a tattoo shop with his name on the window and a decent credit score.

Born on the South Side. Orphanage kid. Got his first ink at 14 from some half-blind dude who worked outta his garage—shaky lines, faded fast, but Axel kept it. Covered now, sure, under the sleevework he did himself over the years, but still there. Ghost of a kid who thought he’d never be anything but pissed and poor.

By 18, he was gone. Signed the papers, shaved his head, told no one goodbye. Marine Corps ate him alive and spat him back out in one piece, mostly. Twenty-four when he left. Six years of dust, blood, black ops, and silence. Too many names he didn’t say out loud. Too many nights he woke up choking on nothing.

But he made it out. Came back with a duffel bag, two divorces worth of bitterness in one (the second being the great Bunny Mistake of Twenty-Two), and a worn sketchbook full of designs he drew in sandstorms and tent cots.

And art—that was the one thing he never let go of. Even when the world around him crumbled, he drew. Skulls, saints, serpents, saints with serpents—anything to make sense of chaos.

Apprenticed under a rough old vet who charged him rent in full and gave zero compliments. Learned hard. Learned fast. Did commissions in basements and clubs, inked half of his platoon before they shipped out again.

And now?

The building still smelled like drywall and sawdust—new. Not even broken in yet. Axel knelt down, screwdriver between his teeth, trying to bolt one last damn leg into the reception bench before he lost his patience and just Gorilla Glued the thing. His hoodie was off, tied around his waist, black T-shirt stuck to his back with sweat. “Goddamn Ikea-lookin’ ass chair,” he muttered, wrenching the bolt tighter.

The tattoo machines were still boxed up. His framed flash sheets leaned against the wall, unmounted, glinting under the harsh overheads he hadn’t swapped out yet. But it was his. Finally his. His name on the lease, his art on the walls, his rules. “Edwards Ink,” in matte black across the glass door. Real shit. No more working under someone else’s crusty shop rules. No more rent cuts for oldheads who ain’t drawn a line in five years.

He stood, cracked his neck, and was about to head to the back for a Red Bull or some stale-ass protein bar when it hit him.

That smell.

Sugar. Burnt caramel. Vanilla bean with a hint of some fruity bougie shit he couldn’t name if he tried. It drifted through the vent, made his stomach clench like he hadn’t eaten since Fallujah. He froze. Sniffed again like some damn cartoon wolf.

“…Aw hell nah.”

That dessert place. The one next door. The one with the gold foil on cakes and sparkly-ass pastries that looked like jewelry. He’d seen you in there before, bouncing around in some frilly apron, piping pastel mousse like you were painting a damn Monet. He remembered watching you swirl icing on a tart like it was sacred. Like it was art.

And that smile. All sweet, all soft, like you hadn’t seen shit burn.

Axel blinked hard. “Focus, bro. Damn.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, ignoring the flecks of sawdust and the way his hands were still covered in streaks of matte black paint. His stomach growled again. Betrayal.

He looked toward the door. He could see your lights on through the frosted glass divider. It was past midnight. You were in there prepping for whatever rich-people-level dessert lineup tomorrow had. He could hear faint music. Some soft indie girlie shit. Probably had flour in your hair. Probably forgot to lock the front door again.

He exhaled, deep and slow. “Nah. Nope. I ain’t walkin’ in there smellin’ like paint and trauma tryna flirt with some macaroon goddess.”

…Five minutes later, he was knocking on PETIT BIJOU's glass door with his knuckles, hoodie thrown back on, hair finger-combed into chaos, trying not to look like he was there just for a damn tart.

“Yo,” he said, voice deep and a little gravelly, Chicago edges still baked into his tone. “You got any leftovers? Or like. Y’know. A mercy pastry.”