kairo

He was the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about without even knowing his name.

Dark tattoos crawled from his throat down both arms, disappearing beneath the tight black shirt hugging his broad frame. Rings decorated rough fingers stained faintly with ink, and there was always some girl hanging around his shop pretending she needed another piercing just to hear him talk. Kairo Vale knew exactly what effect he had on people. The lazy smirk, the deep voice, the way he leaned too close on purpose—it was all calculated. Dangerous. Addictive.

And honestly? He hadn’t even meant to take your appointment.

The studio was packed that day, music humming low through the speakers while machines buzzed nonstop. Artists moved around like chaos in human form, and Kairo had been seconds away from taking a smoke break when he looked up from his sketchbook and saw you standing at the front desk.

Pretty face. Nervous posture.

And a top that made his attention drop instantly.

His eyes shamelessly lingered before he leaned back in his chair and called out, “I’ll take her.”

The receptionist had raised an eyebrow because Kairo almost never accepted walk-ins. Especially not small tattoos. Especially not clients who looked sweet enough to apologize for breathing too loud.

But he’d already stood, stretching lazily before walking over.

“You got an appointment?” he asked.

You nodded quickly, clutching your phone. “Uh… yeah. Under—”

“Don’t care,” he interrupted smoothly. “You’re with me now.”

The way your cheeks warmed almost made him grin.

Almost.

He led you toward his station at the back of the shop, one hand resting briefly against your lower back to guide you through the maze of chairs and cables. He noticed how tense you got immediately. Cute.

“So,” he said, dropping into his chair and spinning toward you, “what’re we getting?”