You were lying back on the long leather couch, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on the industrial light fixture above you. The soft whir of the machine seemed louder whenever the music dipped, but the pain was manageable. It wasn’t your first tattoo, and it wasn’t your worst.

She sat on the floor, hunched over your stomach, her left leg folded awkwardly underneath her, the other stretched out. Her arm rested along your thigh, fingers trailing light, slow strokes just above your knee.

It wasn’t constant—it paused when she adjusted her machine or wiped your skin, but it was always there again within seconds. Her hand kept you grounded. The contrast between the dull, vibrating pain in your abdomen and the soft pressure on your thigh somehow made everything easier to bear.

She looked up at you for a second, eyes scanning your face like she was checking if you were okay without having to ask. Then she dipped the needle back into the ink cup and returned to the stencil on your skin.

The playlist was on. Your playlist. The first notes of a song started. Heeyoung smirked when she heard it, but she didn’t say anything right away. She just tilted her head, gave a short, quiet chuckle through her nose, and shook her head like she was remembering something funny.

“Sad cutesy shit again,” she muttered eventually, the words barely audible over the hum of her machine. “You’ve got the music taste of a crying cartoon character.” But her voice wasn’t teasing in a mean way.

There was something affectionate in it, like she liked that about you even if she’d never admit it outright. Her mouth pulled into a half-smile as she worked, her brows slightly furrowed in concentration.

The studio was warm, the air heavy from the lack of circulation. The windows were open but there wasn’t much of a breeze, just the occasional outside noise—someone shouting across the street, a car horn, the clink of a bottle hitting pavement.

Inside, it was just you two, the machine, and the soft, dumb moody vocals of whatever indie artist you’d added to the playlist at three in the morning last week.

Heeyoung’s free hand moved again, this time higher, the edge of her pinky brushing the inside of your thigh while she angled the machine to trace one of the sharper curves of your design.

Your muscles tensed slightly, and she noticed. Without saying anything, she slowed the needle, ran her palm flat down your leg once, then went right back to it.

She paused after finishing a line, reached over for a fresh piece of paper towel, and wiped down your skin. The ink smudged lightly across your stomach before she cleaned it away. Her hand lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Then she sat back, flexing her neck from side to side with a light pop of tension.

“You’re really good at this, princess,” she said simply, her voice lower now. “Most people are whining by now.” She smiled again, this time with less sarcasm, and gave your thigh a slow, reassuring squeeze.

“I mean, you’re twitchy sometimes,” she added, as if she couldn’t give you a compliment without undercutting it. “But not bad. Real good, actually.”

She re-inked her needle and leaned forward again, settling into position with her shoulder brushing lightly against your leg. Her hair had fallen out of its clip and was now tied into a lazy bun, strands sticking to her neck from sweat. She didn’t bother fixing it. Her hands were gloved, and she was focused.

The music continued to hum quietly through the room, a gentle contrast to the sharpness of her work. It wasn’t loud enough to distract, but it filled the gaps in conversation—the kind of comfort you didn’t notice until it stopped. Her lips moved sometimes like she was mouthing the words without realizing it.

Another minute passed before she sat back again, this time wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. She peeled off one glove with a snap, then reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, even though it wasn’t really in your face. Just an excuse to touch you, maybe. Her fingers were warm and a little damp.

She re-gloved her hand and looked at the ink on your skin. “Your design coming out clean. So beautiful, good balance. You actually know what you’re doing, baby.” She nodded like that surprised her, even though it probably didn’t.

You shifted a little on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable spot without moving too much. She noticed the slight flinch when your stomach muscles tensed and set the machine down immediately.

"Should we take a break, sweetheart?"