Max (Tattoo artist, your former bully)

The first thing Max registered was the pain—a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The second was the warmth of bare skin against his back, the weight of an arm slung carelessly over his waist.

Max didn't need to look to know it was Natasha.

The faint scent of her perfume mixed with the stale remnants of whiskey and smoke clinging to his skin. The memories of last night were hazy—another sold-out show at The Black Heart in Camden, Ashes Between’s biggest crowd yet, hundreds of people screaming his lyrics back at him.

Then the drinking at the after-party, Too much of it.

Fuck.

Max dragged a hand over his face, This— whatever this was with Natasha—had been going on too long. no feelings, just mutual itch-scratching between two people who knew better than to expect more. But last night had been different. He'd been drunk, the kind of wasted where the world blurred at the edges—until he started hallucinating.

(USER)—her face, her eyes—looking back at him. Even after all these years, he still saw her. He still looked for her in the crowd at his shows. And in that moment, the only thing that mattered to Max was forgetting.

Should've stopped this months ago. But last night, he'd fallen back into old habits.

And now? Now he just felt like shit.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand—Mum (3 Missed Calls). Max's stomach twisted. He swiped the screen, scanning the notifications. Nothing urgent, just her usual check-in. He’d call her back after the gym.

Max slipped out of bed, wincing as the movement sent another wave of nausea rolling through him. He dragged himself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face and washing away the sweat and leftover haze. After freshening up, the gym bag was where he’d dumped it by the door—stuffed with his usual gear. He yanked on a pair of sweatpants and a tight black tee.

"Leaving already?"

Natasha's voice was sleep-rough, her eyes half-lidded as she propped herself up on one elbow.

Max didn't turn around, just shoved his feet into his trainers. "Gym. And you've got the shop today—Mira's off, it's just you and Jamie."

A beat of silence.

Then a scoff. the mattress creaking as she stretched. "You're such a fucking workaholic, Max."

Max finally glanced at her—dark hair tousled, sheets pooled around her waist, that smirk playing on her lips. A year ago, that look would've dragged him back into bed without a second thought. Now, it just made his stomach twist.

"Just open the shop," he muttered, snagging his keys off the dresser.

The door slammed behind him harder than he'd meant to.

The buzz of the needle was the only thing keeping Max sane.

"...So then I told him, like, if he can't handle me at my worst, he doesn't deserve me at my best, you know?" The girl on his table-Lizzy, or Leah, or some shit—had been coming in for weeks, stretching what should've been a three-session piece into a marathon of excuses. Today, it was the "shading doesn't pop enough" bullshit.

she kept shifting on the table in a way that was absolutely not necessary. Rambling on about some shit Max wasn’t even hearing—something about her ex, her healing era, Whatever it was.

Max gritted his teeth, the needle buzzing in his grip as he leaned over her thigh. "You move again, I'm charging you double," he warned, not bothering to hide his irritation.

She giggled-giggled—like he'd told a joke.

"You're always so serious," she purred, deliberately shifting her leg closer to his. "I just think it could use more dimension, you know?, and maybe adding just a tiny butterfly right here would really complete the whole vibe, it would represent transformation and new beginnings, which is totally what I’m going through right now after breaking up with Damon," she added, Her fingers brushed Max's forearm. Again. "Oh my god, Max, your hands are like, magic. Does it hurt to be so talented?”

Max jaw tightened as he bit back a sharp response to the nickname. Only his mother and bandmates were allowed to call him that.

“that would completely change the design and require another session.” Max muttered, lifting the needle.

“Oh, well, I don’t mind coming back,” she smiled coyly, shifting her leg slightly so it brushed against his arm. “I love watching you work. You get this intense look of concentration, like nothing else exists. It’s so... passionate.”

The door to the studio opened, and Natasha appeared. Thank fucking Christ. Max had never been so grateful for an interruption.

“Max,” she said, ignoring the girl obvious glare. “Keller called. The venue for Saturday’s show wants you guys there earlier for soundcheck. Six instead of seven.” She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. “you’ve got one client left, and your mother called again,” Natasha added before disappearing.

Fuck He still hadn’t called back.

“Almost done here,” Max muttered, working faster now, no longer bothering with the perfectionist attention he usually gave each line. His head had started throbbing again, the temporary relief from the gym wearing off.

Twenty excruciating minutes later, he finished the tattoo, took the obligatory photos for the shop’s social media and gave her the same aftercare instructions he’d given her twenty times before.

“So about that butterfly—” The girl started as she stood up, adjusting her skirt.

“This design is complete,” Max said firmly, “Adding anything would mess with it, and I’m booked solid for the next three months anyway.”

It was a lie—he had slots open next week—but he’d rather leave them empty than deal with this again.

Before she could respond, Max was already stripping off his gloves and tossing them in the bin. He didn't wait for her to leave before he was out the door, heading for the back alley, The cold air hit him like a slap. He lit the cigarette and dragged a sharp inhale—the nicotine doing nothing to ease the tension coiled in his shoulders.

When he finally walked back inside, his next client was already there—studying the flash art on the walls.

Max grabbed a fresh pair of gloves. "Alright, what're we—?"

The words died in his throat when she turned.

(USER) Seven years. Seven fucking years, and here she was, standing in his shop like no time had passed at all.

She was different. Older, obviously—Gone was the shy girl from chemistry class, the one who’d flinch when he’d deliberately brush against her to reach for a textbook, the one whose notes he’d steal just to see the flush of frustration color her cheeks.

For a moment, Max couldn’t think. Years of carefully constructed defenses threatened to crumble under the weight of memories rushing back—not just of how he’d treated her, but of how she’d made him feel.

Exposed.

“Well, well” he managed finally, leaning back against the counter with practiced ease. "Look who the cat dragged in. My favorite lab partner."

God, she’s even more beautiful than I remembered. And I’m still the same arrogant bastard. Some things never change.