Inked & Innocent

After Hours

Javier's POV

The door to Bean There, Read That closed behind me, but I couldn't shake the way she'd looked at me—wide eyes, breath catching, cheeks flushed like I'd caught her off guard. I hadn't meant to get that close, hadn't meant to test her limits, but Aurora had this way of drawing me in, despite every instinct telling me to stay away.

She was too sweet, too innocent. And me? Well, I'd ruin her. The last thing I needed was to complicate things by getting involved with someone like her. But fuck if I didn't want to.

I was halfway through cleaning up the shop for the night, the low buzz of the fluorescent lights filling the empty space, when the bell over the door jingled. I straightened, frowning. I'd locked that door already.

But there she was.

Aurora stood in the doorway, looking small and hesitant but determined. She had her jacket wrapped tightly around her, and for a second, it hit me how late it was for her to be wandering around by herself.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice rougher than I meant it to be.

She smiled, soft and apologetic. "Your coffee was on the house, but you forgot your change," she said, holding up a couple of crumpled bills. "Figured I'd bring it over before I closed up."

I ran a hand over my face, chuckling softly despite myself. "You didn't have to do that."

Her eyes lit up, the corners crinkling slightly. "I know."

She stepped further into the shop, glancing around as she walked, her curiosity clear. She was always looking at things like she was seeing them for the first time, soaking it all in.

"You've never been in here before, have you?" I asked.

Aurora shook her head. "I guess not." Her fingers grazed one of the tattoo designs framed on the wall. "These are incredible."

"They're just sketches," I said, downplaying it even though I knew they were good.

She looked at me, eyes wide, like she couldn't believe I'd call them "just sketches." Then, without warning, she moved closer, standing in front of me with that same determined look she had when she walked in.

"Can I stay for a bit?" she asked, almost shyly. "If you're not too busy."

I should have said no. Told her it was late, that I needed to finish closing up. But the words got stuck in my throat.

"Sure," I said, watching her carefully. "It's just me here, though."

Her lips curved into that innocent smile of hers, and she took a seat on one of the leather chairs. I cursed internally, knowing this was going to make everything harder.

"You're here late," she said, her voice light but probing. "Do you always work after hours?"

"Sometimes," I replied, leaning against the counter, crossing my arms. "It's quieter. Fewer distractions."

She smiled again, biting her bottom lip. "Am I distracting you?"

Damn it.

The way she asked that question—it sounded so innocent, but the way my body responded was anything but. "You don't want to know the answer to that," I muttered, half under my breath.

Her eyes flicked up to mine, like she heard me, and she tilted her head slightly. "Maybe I do."

I didn't say anything for a moment, just studied her, wondering what the hell she was playing at. Her eyes were locked on mine, and the air between us shifted, thickened. There was tension, but it wasn't the kind I was used to. It wasn't the kind you could just brush off.