His Tattoo (BxB)

The Daring Encounter

Noah POV

I stepped out of the cab and adjusted my blazer, taking a moment to gather myself. The air buzzed with the energy of the gala, a charity event my father insisted I attend. I couldn’t help but feel like a pawn in his game, showcasing the perfect son to the city’s elite. I pasted on a charming smile, ready to navigate the night’s endless sea of small talk and forced pleasantries.

As I entered the lavish venue, I was greeted by the clinking of champagne glasses and the melodic hum of laughter. My mind raced, thinking about the looming presentations I needed to prepare for next week and the pressure that came with my family's expectations. But first, I needed a drink.

I maneuvered through the crowd until I spotted the bar, a glimmering oasis amidst the chatter. As I ordered a glass of whiskey, my eyes caught something unexpected: a pop-up tattoo booth. It seemed out of place here, almost defiant against the polished atmosphere. Curiosity pulled me in, and I walked over, finding a tattoo artist with a reckless aura—his dark hair tousled, his arms adorned with ink that told stories of rebellion and defiance.

“Do you even have any tattoos?” I smirked, crossing my arms and leaning against the booth, intrigued by this outlier in my carefully curated world.

“Why? You looking to get one?” he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm and a hint of challenge.

“I’d rather not ruin my skin with your questionable art,” I retorted, trying to keep my tone light, but there was an edge to my words. Something about him stirred irritation and interest in equal measure.

“Suit yourself, pretty boy. But I think you’d look good with a little ink. A reminder that you’re alive beneath that shiny exterior,” he replied, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

For a moment, I was taken aback, the confidence in his voice catching me off guard. The tension crackled between us—his rebellious spirit clashing with my polished demeanor. I could feel my cheeks warming, a flush of something I couldn’t quite identify. Was it anger or attraction?

“Why are you even here?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t you have better places to showcase your… talents?”

His smirk widened, and I felt a flicker of something dangerous—excitement mixed with annoyance. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, rich kid. This is real art. Something you wouldn’t understand in your silver-spoon world.”

I was about to shoot back another retort when he leaned closer, his presence overwhelming. The faint scent of smoke and something musky enveloped me, and I fought the urge to step back. Instead, I held my ground, heart racing.

“You might be surprised at how much I know about art,” I countered, our faces inches apart. I could see the glimmer of challenge in his dark eyes.

“Real art isn’t about money, Noah,” he said, his voice low, almost intimate. “It’s about feeling. Something tells me you don’t feel much in your world.”

Before I could respond, the gala organizers called for attention, and the crowd began to gather for the evening’s speeches. I could feel the moment slipping away, but something compelled me to linger, to push back against this tattooed stranger who seemed to see right through my façade.

“Real art, huh? Maybe I’ll stop by your shop and see for myself,” I said, turning to leave, my heart racing as I walked away.

“Do it,” he called after me, his voice steady. “You might learn a thing or two about being alive.”

As I rejoined the crowd, the encounter replayed in my mind like a vivid movie scene—his words echoing, his presence lingering. I didn’t realize it then, but I was drawn to him in a way I’d never expected.

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Jun3: took me long enough to post that :').