Inside Foster Ink, warmth settled low and steady beneath dim amber lights and the quiet buzz of tattoo machines. Old rock music murmured softly from a speaker near the counter—something classic, low and grainy, the kind of track that filled silences without demanding attention.

The shop wasn't particularly busy tonight. Only a couple of appointments scattered through the evening, the last client already gone. Morgan stood near one of the leather chairs, gloved hands steady as he worked ink carefully into a young man's forearm, the design half-finished but clean.

The bell above the door jingled. Morgan didn't look up immediately—finishing a line took precedence.

A wet backpack hit the floor harder than usual.

That made him glance over.

Y/n stood near the entrance, hair damp from rain, hoodie sleeves shoved over restless hands. Tired eyes. Fast breathing. Stress practically rolling off him in waves, thick enough to taste.

Bad day, then.