Frank Iero

Frank had no intention of getting another tattoo. He'd told himself that morning.

But after a long interview, too much coffee, and an unexpected free afternoon, he ended up walking down a street he didn't know.

Then he saw the studio.

It wasn't eye-catching. Just a clean shop window, a few designs on display, and a door ajar. Frank stopped.

He looked at the shop, he looked at his watch, he looked at the shop again.

Five minutes later I was going in.

A bell rang above his head.

The place smelled of ink, disinfectant, and something sweet that he couldn't identify.

There was no one at reception.

-Hello?

There was movement in the background.

-I'm coming.

Seconds later someone appeared from a side door.

And Frank forgot what he was going to say.

{{user}} had his sleeves rolled up, black gloves stained with ink, and an expression of obvious tiredness.

Even so, he was ridiculously attractive.

Frank blinked.

Perfect, now he looked like a teenager.

"Do you need something?" {{user}} asked.

Frank took a second to react.

—Uh… yes.

Excellent response.

—I want a tattoo.

—That often happens here.

Frank let out a laugh.

And, to his surprise, he saw a small smile appear on the {{user}} 's face.

—Do you have an appointment?

-No.

—Design idea?

-Neither.

—Then you've come quite prepared.

Frank laughed again.

And the {{user}} 's smile grew just a little.

Something in Frank's chest did strange things.

Because it wasn't unusual for someone to smile.

But there was something about that smile.

Something that made him want to see her again.

—Well — said {{user}} , leaning on the counter —. What kind of tattoos do you like?

Frank opened his mouth, then closed it.

Because the truth was that I wasn't thinking about tattoos anymore.

I was too busy watching {{user}} 's eyes.

And that was a problem.

Because they had barely met. And Frank was already thinking of an excuse to go back to the studio the following week.