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“Cause my two-thirty should be here any second and this sweet girl wants to know if we do walk-ins,” the redhead gestured to you even as she kept her attention on her colleague. The man’s crystal blue eyes finally slid to you, roaming your face before slipping down your body. 

You couldn’t tell if her description of you was meant to be patronizing or not, but you wilted a little, feeling even more out of place in the industrialist decor of the tattoo shop. You tried not to squirm as the man looked you over. It was a warm spring day so you were wearing a sundress and comfortable tennis shoes, a denim jacket around your shoulders to ward against the chilly breeze. You didn’t know if he was checking you out or just looking for any visible tattoos, but if it was the latter, he wouldn’t find any. You didn’t have any tattoos. Yet.

“You wanna know if we do walk-ins, doll?” the man called Barnes asked, resting his inked forearms on the shop’s counter and leaning down, his head ducking until he caught your eye. A mischievous grin curled the edges of his mouth and a warm heat licked to life in your core, a flush filling your cheeks.

In reality, you already knew the Shield Tattoo Parlor took walk-ins. The idea of getting a tattoo had been burning a hole in your brain for some time, but you were nervous about it. So you’d researched all the different tattoo shops around Brooklyn, consulted your friends with tattoos and finally settled on not only Shield, but the exact artist you wanted to work with. The only reason you hadn’t made an appointment was because you knew you’d stress about it for weeks before the day finally arrived, so you figured tricking yourself into thinking it was a spontaneous idea would be the best way of avoiding the stress and anxiety. You’d been right—until you’d stepped in the door.

“Y-yeah,” you said, trying make your voice come out strong and utterly failing. You were letting your nerves get the better of you, and it didn’t help that the handsome man in front of you hadn’t stopped staring since he’d first looked at you. “I was hoping Steve Rogers might be available?” It was meant to be a statement, but came out sounding more like a question. 

Barnes’ smirk dropped. You recognized him from Shield’s website, which featured photos of each of the artists and tons of images of their work. Bucky Barnes was more proficient in the traditional tattoo style, which wasn’t what you were looking for. Nor was Natasha Romanoff, the redhead, who specialized in fine line and geometric tattoos. Instead, it was Steve Rogers, who worked in watercolor, that you wanted to do your tattoo.

Bucky let his gaze slide down your body once more, making heat flood your face. “Good choice, doll,” he murmured, his lips curling again in a smile that was somehow even more flirtatious. “You’ll look pretty with one of Steve’s pieces.” He stood up straight and turned to the back, calling out to a blond man who was cleaning up his station from what appeared to be a just-finished appointment. “Ayo, Stevie, you got a client!” 

The blond man looked up and his gaze snagged on yours. His bright blue eyes were the color of the ocean and they stole the breath from your lungs. The fact that they were set into a face that looked sculpted by the ancient masters only made him more of a sight to behold. With cut cheekbones and a sharp jaw, contrasted by the soft curve of his lips and sweep of his eyebrows, he looked like the definition of attractive. 

It struck you like a lightning bolt: Steve Rogers was much more handsome in person than in his photo on Shield’s website—and he was already devastatingly hot in the photo.

The warmth that Bucky’s flirty smirk had stoked to life roared into an inferno when your eyes met Steve’s, making your hands tremble enough you had to shove them in the pockets of your jacket to hide the tremors. Butterflies took flight in your stomach and your heart pounded an anxious beat. To the best of your ability, you gave Steve a tremulous smile. 

Steve quickly finished cleaning up his station then made his way to the front of the shop and you were able to get an even better look at him. He was tall, with his blond hair swept back from his chiseled face, his blue eyes sparkling in the daylight of the spring afternoon. A white t-shirt clung to his broad shoulders, a full sleeve of tattoos decorating his left arm and peeking out from the collar to cover the side of his neck. He sported a small star on the edge of his cheekbone, like a permanent stamp of defiance. He would be intimidating if not for the charming smile adorning his handsome face.

“What can I help you with, sweetheart?” Steve asked, edging in front of Bucky so he stood across the counter from you. Bucky glared at the blond but let it happen, only grumbling a little as he stepped back and gave Steve room. “Do you want a consult or are we tattooing today?”

“I was hoping to get a tattoo?” you said, your statement coming out as a question again. You winced a little, trying to get control of yourself—though you weren’t sure how you’d manage it with both of the very hot, very tattooed men still staring at you. You looked down at the counter, unable to hold Steve’s gaze for too long. “I mean, if you have the time.”

Steve hummed, catching your attention and when you looked back up at him, he gave you a gentle, reassuring smile. “Why don’t you come to my station and we can talk more, that sound good, sweetheart?” he asked, one hand extended toward the back of the studio where you’d initially spotted him.

You walked ahead of him across the shop, passing other artists working on people. Natasha was applying a stencil to a young woman’s forearm, while a man you recognized as Sam Wilson was doing the line work for a big piece on an older man’s calf. When you got to Steve’s station, there was a cheap plastic chair set up at the foot of the tattoo table, a rolling stool on one side along with tons of instruments and tools you had only a vague idea about from your research. Steve sat on the stool and gestured for you to sit in the chair. 

“Okay, so do you know what you want, or do you want to look through some pictures?” he asked as he bent over to grab a thick black binder from the bottom shelf of his station.

“I know what I want,” you said quickly, the words leaving you in a rush as you practically cut him off. 

Steve froze halfway bent over to retrieve the binder, his ocean eyes sliding to yours with a little bit of surprise on his face. He let the binder fall back on the shelf with a thunk and sat up, crossing his forearms and propping them on the table beside you. “And what is it that you want, sweetheart?” Steve asked, his voice dropping low as he leaned forward, interest sparkling in his blue eyes.

The sounds of the shop fell away, even the music that was pumping out of the speakers feeling distant as you stared at Steve’s handsome face. The color of his eyes reminded you of blue hyacinths, and you couldn’t help but melt a little under the warmth of his attention.

All of a sudden, you realized you were leaning forward in your seat, unconsciously swaying closer to him; you made an effort to lean back and sit up straight. Squaring your shoulders, you looked Steve dead in the eye, refusing to let yourself get distracted again, and told him what you wanted. 

“I’d like a small watercolor tattoo of a lilac,” you said, one hand flitting up to your shoulder and pointing to your collarbone over your jean jacket. “Here.”  You dropped your gaze to Steve’s hands, one fully covered in artwork and the other entirely unblemished. “I saw the lavender sprig you did on your Instagram,” you said more softly, a little shy about admitting you’d stalked his social media even though your friends with tattoos had told you it was a perfectly normal thing to do.

“You liked that piece, huh?” Steve murmured, his voice low and drawing your attention back to his face. Heat flooded your cheeks at the way Steve was looking at you so intensely, a soft hint of a smile at the corner of his lips, but you managed a nod. “Well, I think I can manage something like it for you,” he said. Steve sat up, breaking his stare and leaving you feeling like you were gasping for breath. He rolled his stool over to the shelves to pull out a sketchbook, seemingly unaffected while you were left feeling cold and bereft.

Steve flipped to a page and showed you a rough sketch of the lavender piece you’d seen on Instagram and you hummed delightedly, nodding. “That’s the one,” you said excitedly, remembering how you’d been struck by the photo of the final design. It’s what had made you decide on Steve to be your tattoo artist.

Steve grinned at your reaction, staying silent for a beat too long before shaking himself and getting back to business. “I can work up a lilac sketch real quick,” he said. “We can make adjustments before I transfer it to a stencil, then we can figure out the placement, sound good?” he asked, his blue eyes catching yours, that charming smile still making your heart thump in your chest. 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” you said softly, a little struck dumb by Steve’s attentiveness. Steve’s gaze lingered on you, his blue eyes intense and sparkling, staring at you like you were a work of art he didn’t want to look away from for fear of missing out on a second of its beauty. It was heady, and you didn’t want him to stop.

A loud rolling sound and Bucky sliding into your peripheral vision interrupted the moment. Steve looked away, flipping to a new page of his sketchbook and grabbing a pencil. Heat filled your cheeks and you tried not to look guilty as your gaze swiveled to the brunet.

“How’re things going over here?” Bucky asked in an obnoxious voice, spinning around on his stool idly. He reached out and steadied himself with a hand on your knee, but you jerked away from his touch, scooting your chair back an inch accidentally. He pulled away quickly, his palm out in a placating gesture. “Sorry, doll,” he mumbled, rolling his chair further from you.

“Buck,” Steve growled warningly, his blue eyes sharp as he glared at the other artist. “Behave.” The men exchanged a borderline violent look before Steve turned back to the sketchbook, his hand moving in small, swift arcs across the page. 

Chastened for the moment, Bucky stood, prowling behind Steve until he stood behind the blond’s shoulder on the opposite side as you. He stayed quiet as he watched Steve sketch. For a long moment, the only sound in that corner of the shop was the music filtering through the speakers, a rock song you didn’t recognize, and the soft scratches of Steve’s pencil on paper. You tried not to stare at either men, looking around the shop instead.

The space was decorated with an industrialist design scheme, in warm, earthy tones. There were accents of burnished copper around the room, tons of stylized artwork on the walls and plenty of leafy green plants throughout the space. It was cozy in a masculine way, and looked nothing like a stereotypical tattoo shop—which is what you’d hoped to find.

You were wondering who was in charge of taking care of all the plants—and how long it took to water the two-dozen ones you counted as you looked around—when Steve’s voice broke into your thoughts.

“Is this your first tattoo?” Steve asked, not looking up from his sketchbook. 

Somehow, him not looking at you made it easier to answer his question. “Yeah, but I’ve wanted one for a long time,” you said honestly. You let your eyes trace the curves of Steve’s face, appreciating everything that made him look the way he did. The line of concentration between his pinched brows, the determined slash of his mouth, the smoothness of his cheek and the sharpness of his jaw all held you captivated. “It took a while to figure out what I’d get, though—and who I wanted to do it.” You heard yourself speaking even though you weren’t focused on your words at all.

They got Steve’s attention, though, and he looked up, He caught you in the middle of memorizing the exact shade of blue of his eyes, but he didn’t look uncomfortable. Instead, a soft smile curled his lips. “I’m honored you chose me, sweetheart,” Steve said in his low, rumbling voice that you were quickly learning you couldn’t get enough of.

His deep tenor sent heat coiling through your body, making your cheeks flush as warmth spread through your bloodstream. It was unfair that even his voice was hot, but that wasn’t the only reason you liked it. Steve’s voice was comforting in its pleasant deepness and some of your nerves settled for the first time since stepping into the Shield Tattoo Parlor. 

“I promise I’ll take good care of you,” he said in that same deep tone, his blue eyes sparkling with pride and something else you couldn’t quite name. His reassurance comforted you even more.

Smiling shyly, you felt the urge to look away but managed to hold his gaze, even as you squirmed in your chair. “Thanks, Steve,” you said in a quiet, earnest voice.

He let his eyes roam over your face, like he was taking in your expression and committing it to memory, before refocusing on his sketchbook. The moment ended, but you had an inkling of an idea that something more had passed between you and Steve, and you weren’t the only one who’d felt it. You were so enraptured by Steve that the sudden sound of Bucky’s voice almost startled you out of your chair.

“D’you think you’ll get any more tattoos after this?” Bucky asked, breaking the quiet with his question. His tone sounded more than a little hopeful, and you couldn’t help but laugh lightly.

You looked to him with an apologetic expression on your face. “I honestly don’t know,” you said, shrugging. 

Bucky’s hopeful smile drooped a little and his shoulders sagged. “Well I’d take good care of you, too, doll,” he said, starting to walk behind Steve. His blue eyes were piercing, pinning you to your chair with their intensity. “Just remember that.”

Words escaped you, but you were saved from responding by a voice up front. “BARNES!” You turned in your chair to see a blonde woman manning the front counter, an annoyed look on her face. From your research on the Shield website, you recognized her as Yelena Belova. You’d almost picked her for your tattoo since she did pretty fine line pieces, but you’d ended up deciding on Steve because of his watercolor work. 

Bucky loped up to the front counter, greeting a man and leading him to his own station across the room from Steve’s. You figured that was Bucky’s three o’clock. A little relieved to be freed from the brunet man’s intense gaze, you turned back to Steve, who was finishing up his sketch. 

“Don’t mind Buck,” Steve said, brushing some pencil dust from the page. He looked up and caught your eye, giving you a conspiratorial smile. “He sees a pretty girl and he gets a little stupid.”

A heated flush rushed to your cheeks when you realized Steve had just called you pretty, but then he turned his sketchbook to you and you were distracted by the art on the page. You sucked in a sharp, excited breath as you looked at the design. Steve had drawn a pretty little branch of lilacs that looked like they were taken right off a bush. There was no color, but you could imagine the soft purples and pinks he’d use. 

“It’s beautiful,” you said on an exhale. When you looked up at Steve, you were a little embarrassed to have to blink away tears, but he didn’t comment on it. “I love it.”

He grinned, puffing up his chest a little with pride and letting himself bask in it for a short moment. But then his expression turned serious and his eyes dropped back down to the paper. “You’re sure you don’t want any adjustments?” he asked, a note of concern in his tone. 

You stared at the page harder, tilting your head. “Maybe…” you started to say, but bit your lip in uncertainty.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart, and I’ll do it,” Steve urged in a hushed voice like he was trying not to spook you. “Anything.”

A shiver raced down your spine. It was so easy to imagine Steve saying those words in another, more intimate context and you realized you were the one going a little stupid. It took you a moment to gather yourself before you could remember the thoughts that Steve had so thoroughly wiped from your mind. “Can you make it a little… narrower?” you asked, pinching your finger and thumb together as if to illustrate what you meant. 

A determined look swept over Steve’s face and he spun the sketchbook back to him, his hand moving fast to make the change you wanted. You watched him as he worked and it struck you suddenly that you could watch this man draw for hours. You enjoyed seeing the little ways concentration contorted his face, from the small frown he made to the pinch of his brows. Then the way his face would soften while his eyes sharpened as he regarded his work and decided where to move his pencil next. It was all so fascinating to you.

You didn’t know how much time passed before Steve was sitting up and turning the sketchbook back to you. It was even more perfect than before. Grinning you looked up at him and nodded. “That’s it, that’s what I want.” Your voice was decisive, and you knew it was due in no small part to Steve’s diligence to ensuring you were happy that made you feel confident in your decision.

Steve nodded, an answering grin tugging on the corners of his lips. He stood. “Let me just transfer this to a stencil,” he said, moving around your chair to another part of the shop.

You found yourself feeling a little bereft without Steve, and the nerves swept back into your stomach. Valiantly, you held them off by analyzing his station and trying to pick out any personal touches. He returned after only a few short minutes, his drawing transferred to a small piece of paper.

“Can you take your jacket off for me, sweetheart?” Steve asked, settling onto his stool again and giving you a reassuring smile. He busied himself with the stencil as you shed your jacket and hung it over the back of your chair. When he looked up, his eyes lingered for a moment over your exposed shoulders, like he was a little stunned by the sight revealed to his gaze. A beat passed and then another before he seemed to remember himself and his eyes flicked up to your face. “Where do you want it?” he asked, his voice suddenly lower than it had been. He cleared his throat. 

With slightly trembling fingers, you reached up and traced below the jut of your collarbone. “Here,” you whispered, your breath coming out shaky when Steve’s blue gaze followed the trail of your fingers. 

He seemed to shake himself, then took a deep breath and grabbed a mirror from the shelf at his station. He rolled his stool until he sat directly in front of you. With another quiet cough, he moved forward, his thick thighs spreading wide so his knees bracketed your legs.

You squeezed your legs tight together so your bare knees wouldn’t brush the inside of his thighs. Heat was spreading through you and you weren’t sure what to do with your hands or your gaze with Steve so close to you. Before you could decide, Steve handed you the mirror and directed you to hold it in front of you. 

Steve reached toward you, his fingers stopping to hover just shy of your shoulder. Your eyes were focused on his jaw and you watched the muscle there pop as he clenched and released it. “Can I touch you?” he asked in a voice so soft you almost weren’t sure you’d heard him correctly.

“Yeah,” you answered, nodding slightly. You held yourself still, trying not to tremble at the thought of Steve touching you.

With tentative fingers, he edged the strap of your sundress down your shoulder. The pads of his fingers brushed against your skin so lightly, his touch so careful you realized he was worried you might flinch like you had when Bucky touched you. You weren’t startled, though, and Steve made you feel safe, so you only felt warmth flooding through you at his soft touch. Looking up, you caught Steve’s eye and smiled, his lips curving in return.

“That alright, sweetheart?” he murmured, ducking his head so you didn’t have to look up at him. It was such a simple, considerate move, but it made your heart thump pleasantly in your chest.

“Yeah,” you said again. 

Goosebumps rose all over your arms as Steve pushed the strap of your dress further over the curve of your shoulder. The top edge of your dress shifted down less than a quarter of an inch, baring a small new strip of skin and you heard Steve suck in a quick breath. When you glanced at his face, his eyes were on that bit of skin like he couldn’t pry them away. Long moments passed as heat bloomed and swam through your body.

“Steve?” you asked when he spent a little too long staring at you. You couldn’t help but marvel at how distracted he was by the relatively tame amount of skin you were showing. But it made you feel nice, too, to know you weren’t the only one captivated by the other.

The tattoo artist shook himself free from his stupor, pink tinging his cheeks lightly as he glanced at your face and looked away again. “I’m sorry, that was unprofessional of me,” he said, shaking his head at himself, his mouth turned down in a frown. He leaned back and looked like he was going to move way.

Reaching out, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist, squeezing slightly. “It’s okay, Steve, I’m okay.”

He looked up, catching your eye and giving you an assessing look. “You’ll let me know if I make you uncomfortable?” he asked, like he needed to be sure.

You nodded. “Yes, Steve, I promise,” you said. It struck you that you and Steve had each made promises to each other. You hadn’t expected getting a tattoo to be such an intimate experience, especially when you were only getting it on your collarbone, but in the short time you’d known Steve, you already trusted him. And you wanted him to trust you too. “I’ll tell you if I’m uncomfortable,” you said, squeezing his wrist again before letting go, missing the warmth of his skin immediately.

Steve bobbed his head in a nod, his hand moving to rub his wrist absently where you’d touched it. He smiled and squared his shoulders, his expression morphing into a mask of friendly professionalism. He seemed detached all of a sudden and you wished you could go back to before things got weird. “Okay, now look in the mirror and tell me if you want me to adjust the placement at all,” Steve said, holding the stencil up to your collarbone so you could see where it would go.

After a few minutes discussing the placement, during which Steve seemed determined not to look at you too long, you settled on what you liked. Steve grabbed a spray bottle from his station and spritzed the stencil while he held it against your skin. Water trickled down your chest and you gasped a little at the cold of it, but Steve was quick to catch the trail with a paper towel. His hand grazed your soft flesh and you squirmed in your seat, wanting something you knew you weren’t going to get. 

“Still alright, sweetheart?” Steve asked, his voice deep but still a little distant. You nodded, trying to stay still while he held the stencil against your skin. After a moment, he pulled the paper away, leaving the outline of your tattoo on your collarbone. “The placement look good?”

You looked into the mirror while Steve rolled away, tossing out the stencil and paper towel. A frown tugged at the corners of your mouth from the loss of Steve’s closeness, but you smoothed out your expression before he saw it, worried he’d think you didn’t like something about the stencil. You focused on deciding if it was in the right spot, shifting the mirror around to see it from all angles.

When you were satisfied, you looked up to see Steve watching you, a faint smile on his face. You couldn’t help but offer a smile in return, the nerves you hadn’t realized were building in your chest settling again. “I like it,” you said, hard-won confidence in your tone. It seemed easier to tell Steve how you felt than would’ve seemed possible when you first walked into the shop. 

Steve beamed at you, flashing such a charming smile it reminded you just how handsome he was and you were struck dumb all over again. He didn’t seem to notice his affect on you, though, and stood from his stool. Patting the leather table covered in a crinkly white paper like a doctor’s office, he said, “Glad to hear it, sweetheart, now hop up.”

Standing up carefully so you didn’t jostle your dress too much, you held the strap up and stepped around the table. You needed both hands to boost yourself up onto the table, and when you did so, your dress slid down another quarter of an inch. A low growling sound rumbled in Steve’s chest, but it stopped almost as soon as it started—gone so quick you weren’t entirely sure you heard it. You looked up at him in surprise.

Steve reached forward and gently but firmly tugged your dress back up, higher than it had been when you’d walked in. “Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and rumbly. His blue eyes had darkened and there was an intense look in them as he looked at you. “If you need help with anything, just tell me, it’s what I’m here for.”

Ducking your head shyly, you hid a smile as heat bloomed in your chest and your heart thumped at Steve’s words. “Okay, Steve,” you said softly. 

Seemingly satisfied with your answer, Steve handed you an iPad and asked you to read and sign the shop’s consent form. He told you to let him know if you had any questions. Quickly, you skimmed through the form, but you’d already read it since Shield had a copy on their website. You signed it and handed the iPad back to him.

When he’d set it aside, he patted the table to your side and directed you to lay down. You did so, with your your feet facing the wall, your head and shoulders poised beneath the bright standing light that was part of Steve’s station. You shifted around until you were comfortable, while Steve busied himself with putting on latex gloves—after he’d checked to make sure you weren’t allergic—then prepared his tattoo gun and ink.

Nervousness twisted in your gut as you watched him and you looked away when it became too much, staring up at the ceiling instead. Your fingers twisted together in your lap, and you chewed on your lip. You knew you wanted this tattoo, but you didn’t know how much it was going to hurt and, if you were honest with yourself, you were a little scared.

“Hey,” Steve said, getting your attention. You looked to him and found he’d sat back on his stool so he hovered close above you. “Are you ready?” he asked, his expression soft as he stared down at you. His eyes were attentive, watching your face closely.

Biting your lip, you nodded, wanting to get it over with. Or, at least, you wanted him to start so you’d know what you were in for because the anticipation was killing you. 

“I know it’s a small piece, but if you need to take a break at any point, just tell me, alright?” Steve asked, his face kind, a gentle smile curling his lips. 

“Okay,” you whispered, nodding. 

“Good girl,” Steve muttered, his eyes trained on the stencil as he bent over to focus on his work. 

It didn’t seem like he realized exactly what he’d said, but you’d heard it and his praising words sent a pleasurable warmth cascading through your chest, spreading outward until your fingers and toes were tingling with it. Your body relaxed, even as the loud buzzing of the tattoo gun started up. You stared at Steve’s face, watching his expression twist with concentration, wondering if he had any idea how he’d made you feel with those two simple words.

Then the needle of the gun touched your skin and your thoughts scattered. You were proud of yourself for not flinching, but your face definitely screwed up in a wince. Steve shot you a quick sympathetic smile before returning his attention to his work. You didn’t know what you expected, but the sensation of a needle piercing your skin over and over again was both exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it. It hurt more and less than you’d thought it would. 

Shifting your hands to your sides, you clenched your fingers into tight fists, your nails digging into your palms, the bite of the pain taking your focus away from the feel of the tattoo needle for a short moment. Your leg bounced, too, even as you forced your shoulders and upper body to stay perfectly still so you didn’t mess up Steve’s work.

You didn’t know if Steve saw your body’s reaction to the pain, but he started talking to you, and you were thankful for the distraction. “You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart,” he said in a low murmur barely audible above the sound of the tattoo gun. “I know it hurts, but you’re being so good for me—sitting so still.” 

Steve’s words made you feel impossibly good, so proud of yourself, which sent more heat licking through your body, though you did your best to ignore it. “It does hurt,” you mumbled, unable to stop yourself, but you were rewarded by making Steve grin. You couldn’t help yourself, the sight of him grinning made you smile. “It’s different than I expected,” you admitted.

“It feels weird, right?” Steve asked, glancing at you, his blue eyes sparkling like you were sharing an inside joke. “You never quite get used to it,” he said. Your eyes fell to his fully tattooed arm. Before you could ask him about it, though, he continued. “So why a lilac?”

Your gaze skated away from Steve and up to the ceiling. “It’s my favorite flower,” you said, wondering far too late if it was a silly reason to get a tattoo of it. But it was the truth—you thought lilacs were pretty, and they smelled nice.

Steve hummed in acknowledgement. “Do you like flowers, then?” he asked, no judgement in his tone as he made conversation. “Or just lilacs.”

“I like a lot of flowers, I suppose,” you said, staring unseeingly up at the ceiling. “Lilacs are my favorite, but I like daffodils and daisies, too—oh, and sunflowers.” You said, grinning and looking back at Steve. “A lot of flowers,” you repeated. 

Steve pulled the tattoo gun from your skin and gave you his full attention, grinning down at you. “So have you been to the botanic garden then?” he asked before turning and fiddling with the ink, then returning to work on your tattoo.

A frown marred your face, but you winced less when the needle pressed to your skin again. “No,” you admitted. “But I’ve always wanted to go.”

“You’d love it, sweetheart,” Steve said, his voice a little distracted as he focused on his work. “There’s a whole hill of daffodils this time of year.”

You sighed dreamily, wondering if they had any lilac bushes. “That sounds beautiful,” you murmured.

Steve made a humming sound of agreement. You both fell quiet for a bit, but you noticed your nails weren’t digging into your palms anymore. The needle still hurt, but Steve had distracted you enough that it had taken your mind off the pain for a bit. As the silence dragged on, though, you could feel yourself tensing up again. 

“Can you keep talking to me, Steve—please?” you asked in a small voice, a little shy about your request. 

Steve paused his tattooing to look down at you. You didn’t know what he saw in your expression, but he smiled softly, an indulgent look crossing his face. “Of course, sweetheart,” he murmured, before returning to his work. “You’re doing so well,” he said again.

His praise sank deep into you, and you felt like you unfurled to soak it in. You were so glad you’d chosen him to be your tattoo artist. You couldn’t imagine what the experience would’ve been like if Steve wasn’t the one guiding you through it. It amazed you how safe and comfortable you felt with him. You’d even almost gotten used to how handsome he was. Almost.

“Ask me anything you want to know,” Steve went on, drawing you out of your thoughts.

“How long have you been tattooing?” you asked the first question that popped into your head. 

Steve grinned absently and launched into his story. He’d been tattooing for over a decade, having gotten into it when he was a teenager with a talent for drawing. He’d grown up with Bucky, who’d decided to pick up the trade, too. Together, they’d met some of the other artists and started Shield. 

For the rest of the time it took Steve to finish your tattoo, he told you stories about the shop, the prank war Bucky and Sam held every winter during the slower months, and asked you about yourself. You told him about your job and your friends, finding it was easy to talk to him. At one point, you asked for a break and he eased up immediately, telling you again how you were sitting so well for your tattoo. His praise made heat pool in your cheeks, but you never got tired of hearing it. 

Finally, Steve finished and cleaned up the tattoo. He handed you the mirror and you held it up so you could see his work properly. You gasped—it was gorgeous. The blending colors and the shading made it look like a piece of art adorning your skin. Tears sprang to your eyes again, but you didn’t blink them away. You let Steve see your shining eyes. “I love it so much,” you whispered, unable to speak any louder.

Steve’s expression softened, something like fondness in his eyes. “I’m so glad, sweetheart.” The backs of his knuckles, still covered in latex gloves, brushed gently against your arm, so softly you weren’t sure if it was deliberate or not. His gaze lingered on your face, his knuckles brushing against you again and that time you knew it was on purpose. You were both caught in the moment, staring at each other, smiling at each other—you wanted to live in that moment with him, lingering together. 

A shiver made your shoulders tremble, and the movement seemed to snap Steve out of his trance. He pushed back from the table, and removed the gloves from his hands. As you sat up, Steve stood and tossed his gloves in a garbage can, seeming to take the moment to gather himself.

“D’you mind if I take some photos,” Steve asked when he turned back to you, holding his phone up and gesturing to it. 

“Oh of course,” you said, hopping off the table as gracefully as you could manage. Steve’s eye’s caught on the hem of your dress where it had fallen low on your chest again, but he didn’t say anything. He led you over to a bare wall, a large ring light set up in front of it. 

Steve snapped a couple photos on his phone and when he was done, you handed him yours and asked if he’d take some for you, too. Steve happily took the phone and snapped some photos for you, chatting with you about any plans you might have for the spring and summer.

When you returned to his station, he had you sit back on the table. Before you could boost yourself up, though, his hands landed on your hips and he helped you up. A little surprised sound escaped your mouth and you looked up at him, your eyes wide.

“I told you, I’m here to help—with anything,” he murmured, a spark in his eye as he looked at you in a way that was anything other than strictly professional. 

Your breath hitched in your chest and your fingers flexed, only then did you realize your hands had fallen to Steve’s arms. He was warm and steady beneath your palms and you didn’t want to let go. “Th-thanks, Steve,” you murmured, unsure what else to say. You wanted to beg him to keep touching you, but you didn’t think that was appropriate.

Before you could say something to make the situation uncomfortable, Steve reluctantly pulled away, taking his hands with him and leaving yours to fall to your sides. Steve took a deep breath, holding your gaze captive with his own, then curled his mouth in a sheepish smile before he turned to gather supplies.

Steve applied a bandage to your tattoo, explaining what he was doing the whole time, and went over the care instructions with you. He told you they were also in the consent form you’d signed that had been sent to your email address. You appreciated that because you were so focused on his hands and his face and his eyes, you were pretty sure everything he was saying was going in one ear and out the other.

When he was done, he helped you off the table. His hands were strong and firm on your hips and you couldn’t help yourself from imagining them wandering to other parts of your body. You cut off that line of thinking before it could get too far, though.

“Thanks Steve,” you murmured, as he stepped back and gave you room to move. Your hands hovered in the space between your bodies, desperately wanting to grab hold of him and pull him back closer to you. “For everything—this was better than I imagined,” you said, staring up at him.

“I’m glad,” he said, his expression softening the longer he looked at you. His hands reached up like he was going to touch you, but his fingers only grazed your elbows. 

Impulsively, you threw your arms around Steve’s neck and pressed yourself against him as you gave him a hug. His arms went around your waist, steadying you against his chest. Your heart pounded in your chest at the realization that hugging Steve felt wonderful. It felt as though your bodies fit together perfectly, and with your face pressed into the base of his neck, the scent of his cologne surrounded you, something fresh and earthy that made you want to wrap your whole body around his.

“Seriously,” you muttered against his shoulder, reluctant to pull away. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, sweetheart,” Steve rumbled, his face buried in your hair. He held on to you, only loosening his arms when you began to step back. 

You shot him a shy smile before turning to pick up your jacket and purse, holding them in your hands since you didn’t want to put either on your bandaged shoulder. When you turned back to Steve, his expression was determined.

“I shouldn’t do this—it’s wildly unprofessional,” he started and stopped, glancing over at Bucky before returning his focus to you. He took a deep breath. “D’you wanna go out some time—with me?” he asked, looking charmingly flustered. 

Your heart thumped in your chest and, for a moment, you couldn’t speak. But the second Steve started to wilt, you reached out, hand wrapping around his tattooed wrist. “I’d love to, Steve,” you said, letting your eager happiness show on your face and in your voice. “I’d love to see you again.” You squeezed his wrist and looked around. “Somewhere that’s not necessarily here,” you said wryly with a grin.

Steve returned your smile with one of his own. “Great,” he said, and handed you his phone so you could put your number in it. When you were done, he pulled you in again for another hug, his arms wrapped around your shoulders. Steve’s hug was warm and comforting and you could already tell you wanted to see him many more times. When he released you, he started leading you to the front of the shop. “I’ll text you—maybe we can go to the botanic garden.”

You beamed up at him. “That sounds lovely,” you said, genuinely excited by the idea.

For a moment, Steve hesitated, then he ducked his head and kissed you on the cheek. His soft lips lingered for a moment, letting you revel in the feel of them against your skin. 

“Be a good girl and take care of your tattoo, sweetheart,” Steve murmured in your ear. “Text me if you have any questions—I’ll take care of you.” With that, he straightened and flashed you one last winning smile before turning back to his station.

You stood there for a moment, a little stunned. You accidentally caught Bucky’s eye as he was looking up from freshening the ink in his needle. He glanced between you and Steve, his face falling a little before returning his focus to his work. You couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad about it, though. You were too excited that Steve had asked you out.

When you turned to the front counter to pay, the blonde—Yelena—checked you out. You gave Steve a hefty tip. Even if he hadn’t asked you out, he’d made you feel so safe and comfortable during your tattoo. It would’ve been a great experience even if it hadn’t ended the way it did. Steve was a talented artist and good at what he did. 

You left the Shield Tattoo Parlor excited about your fresh ink and the man who’d given it to you. Before you’d even gotten on the subway, you felt your phone buzz and when you pulled it out, you saw Steve had texted. You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, unable to wipe the excitement off your face as you read his message.

Looking forward to taking you to the botanic garden, sweetheart, it read. I’ll take you to see the lilacs.