PULSE [H.S]

009

"Butterflies are nature's angels. They remind us what a gift it is to be alive." — Robyn Nola

Harry stands at the entrance to the shop with his arms crossed over his chest.

I say, "What do you want?"

He looks intimidating as ever as he stands there, staring at me. He is dressed in all black, but this time he wears black jeans instead of sweats like I always see him wearing at the gym. The tattoo shop feels a lot smaller with him in it. His presence fills the entire room.

"You up to do another tattoo?" he asks casually.

I'm surprised, really. I didn't think he would want a tattoo from me, of all people. He hasn't kept his distaste for me a secret. I'm tired, though, and I don't think I have it in me to deal with him tonight.

"We're closed. Come back another time," I tell him.

He says, "Haven't you been closed for hours?"

"Yeah, but those three aren't jerks," I point out.

Harry takes a few steps closer to the front desk and closer to me. He says, "I gave you your first boxing lesson on my day off."

I roll my eyes and say, "I didn't ask you to. In fact, I offered to come back another day."

Completely disregarding everything I've said, he grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, exposing his bare chest. My eyes automatically swoon over his chest, and the defined muscles that are staring me in the face.

Shit, boxers really have nice bodies.

He plops himself on my tattoo chair, laying back in it and making himself comfortable. I can't help but gawk at his chest, his abs, his arms, and all of the ink swirling on his skin. It makes me feel faint.

When I snap back to my senses, I grumble, "What the fuck, Harry?"

He purrs, "Want me to beg for it, angel?"

"No," I scoff at him, "you're fucking weird."

He just stares over at me, eyebrows raised in an expectant way. I stare back at him, eyebrows raised too, but in an annoyed way that should be screaming, 'Get the fuck out of my tattoo shop.' If he gets the message, he doesn't listen to it. He stays where he is, being as stubborn as ever.

I sigh in defeat. He's not going to leave, and I don't have the strength or courage in me to fight him. I definitely wouldn't be able to drag him out of my shop. I probably couldn't even get him out of the chair if I tried.

I ask, "What do you want?"

"A butterfly."

"A butterfly?" I repeat, bewildered.

He nods, "Mhmm. Right here."

He points to the area right under his chest. A butterfly would look good there, but that's probably one of the most painful areas to get a tattoo. It also doesn't seem like something that would fit him.

I look at his face, trying to read him. "I can't tell if you're joking."

He says, "I'm not."

"Okay, what kind of butterfly?" I ask.

He asks if I have any designs, so I bring him a book with a variety of options, telling him I can modify any of them if he wants, or make him a new one if he has something in mind. He flips through the pages, looking at all of them.

He says, "You drew all of these?"

I nod, "Yeah."

I feel like life isn't real right now. How is Harry, out of all people, sitting here asking for a tattoo? And not just a tattoo—a goddamn butterfly tattoo.