JJ
Monday surprised me.
Not because anything happened.
Because nothing did.
By ten o’clock the shop had settled into the familiar rhythm I’d always liked best. Tattoo machines buzzed steadily from every station. Someone in the waiting area laughed loud enough that Stitch hollered for them to either calm down or start paying entertainment tax. The smell of green soap mixed with fresh coffee, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I caught myself laughing with one of my clients instead of forcing a smile because it seemed polite.
It was… nice.
Normal.
The kind of normal I’d spent years convincing myself was enough.
I finished wrapping a fresh tattoo, went over the aftercare instructions one last time, and watched my client head out the front door.
The low rumble of a Harl
