Chapter 2: Heat and Hesitation

When I went to Derek's shop again, he was giving a customer an eyebrow piercing.

The bell over the door jingled as I walked in, the sound mixing with the low hum of punk rock from the stereo. The walls were covered with framed photos of past clients—some grinning, others fierce, all marked by Derek’s signature touch.

From where I sat, I could see his sharp profile perfectly.

His long, slightly wavy hair was tied back in a small ponytail, a few strands falling across his forehead.

There was something easy about the way he moved—confident, self-assured, the kind of guy who didn’t need to say much to get a room’s attention. A tattoo snaked down his bicep, disappearing beneath his shirt.

He sensed someone come in and looked up.

When he saw it was me, his brows furrowed ever so slightly.

"Sit down for a bit."

He nodded toward the battered red couch in the corner, his tone half-resigned, half-amused, like he already knew I was trouble but didn’t really mind.

I nodded and sat to the side, waiting.

Derek lowered his head and continued working.

He was all focus—steady hands, eyes narrowed. The kind of intensity you’d expect from someone who cared about the details. I could hear the soft click of his tools and the low, soothing murmur he offered his client.

Since his attention wasn't on me, I started to secretly watch him.

Today he wore a loose, sleeveless tank top, showing off his muscular arms—full of strength.

The shirt was a faded band tee—maybe vintage Nirvana or Metallica. His shoulders were dusted with freckles, and a silver chain glinted at his throat. He looked like he belonged at a music festival or on a Harley, not hunched over a velvet stool in a tiny city shop.

It reminded me of last time, when I got a cartilage piercing. Because I was afraid of the pain, I nervously grabbed his arm.

The muscle under my palm was taut and warm. Was I seriously clutching a stranger like a scared kid? But I couldn’t let go. Not when his skin was this warm, this real.

I could still remember the heat of his skin, how my own heart stuttered as I clung to him—like I was holding on for dear life at the top of a rollercoaster.

My face burned just thinking about it.

At that time, Derek was holding a needle, lining up the piercing spot.

He didn't get angry, just gently reassured me. He leaned in, voice low and steady: "I’ve got you. I’ll warn you before I start, promise."

"Mm."

But my attention was already elsewhere.

Derek didn't say anything else.

And I didn't let go of his arm.

He didn’t even flinch. Just let me hang on, like he’d done this a hundred times for nervous first-timers.

"Okay, get ready."

"1, 2, 3, done."

That sudden stab of pain made me grip his arm even tighter.

I left four crescent-shaped marks on his firm muscles.

I half-expected him to tease me, but instead he just smiled—this lopsided, gentle grin that made me want to melt into the floor.

Derek smiled, started putting on the jewelry, and reminded me about aftercare.

He listed everything—no swimming, keep it clean, text him if I had questions. It was the first time I realized aftercare could sound almost... affectionate.

Gentle and patient.

I never expected that someone who looked so playful and wild, doing such a rebellious job, would be so gentle and meticulous.

He moved with this carefulness that didn’t match his wild, inked-up exterior. The contradiction made my heart pound every time I replayed it in my head.

Since then, I often thought of him—he was always on my mind.

I'd catch myself doodling tiny piercings on my notebook margins during class or scrolling his shop’s Instagram late at night, just to see his hands in a new tattoo post.

But because I was afraid of pain, I hesitated about getting more piercings, and never found another reason to see him.

I kept looking for excuses—"lost an earring back," "maybe this one's crooked"—but chickened out every time. My friends would laugh if they knew.

Then, by chance, my ear piercing got inflamed after getting wet.

I’d been reckless, letting my hair drip all over it after a hot yoga class. But a tiny part of me was almost... glad for the excuse.

It was like I suddenly found an excuse to see him.

My heart fluttered as I mapped my route to his shop, rehearsing what I’d say so I wouldn’t sound totally desperate.

This was the third time.

I touched my swollen ear, feeling inexplicably guilty.

It throbbed with each heartbeat—part pain, part anticipation. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d see right through me this time.