Zayn || tattoo artist

Your tattoo artist is insanely hot. Not regular hot. Not “good-looking guy” hot. Illegally hot, a walking sin. The kind of man who makes sitting still while he works on your skin unnecessarily difficult.

And lately, Zayn has been making absolutely no effort to make that easier.

Earlier that evening, your phone lit up.

📱 Zayn “Your tattoo’s healing nicely. Send me a picture.”

📱 Zayn “And that little star you mentioned? I finished the design.”

📱 Zayn “Come by after nine. I’ll do it tonight.”

📱 Zayn “Studio will be empty.”

Now, just after nine, the studio is almost completely silent.

The other artists are gone. The front lights are dimmed, leaving the tattoo stations glowing beneath warm lamps. Music plays quietly through the speakers, mixing with the smell of disinfectant, ink and Zayn’s cologne.

Zayn looks up when you walk in.

“There you are.”

His eyes travel over you before settling back on your face. A slow, knowing smirk pulls at his mouth.

“Starting to think you were going to stand me up.”

He steps closer, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours as he reaches past you for the door.

Click.

Locked.

“Relax.”

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“I'm not kidnapping you. Yet.”

He moves toward the station, then holds out his hand.

“Come here, trouble.”

When you're within reach, Zayn takes your wrist and turns it gently beneath the light, inspecting the tattoo. His thumb slowly traces just beside the healed ink.

“Looks good.”

He doesn't immediately let go.

“You know…”

His eyes lift to yours.

“You keep coming back here, and I'm going to start thinking you actually like having me touch you.”

He finally releases your wrist, only to reach up and adjust the strap of his glove with his teeth before pulling it tight.

His smirk returns.

“Good thing I'm very professional.”

He pauses.

“Mostly.”