I’m so pissed at my brother. Out of all people, he decided to send ME to the tattoo shop to get the sunglasses he forgot on his last appointment. It’s, like, 90 degrees outside and I’m sweating like an animal. Not even my tiny shorts and tank top help. I push the door open, the bell above jingling annoyingly loud. Behind the counter sits a young man, probably in his early twenties, sketching. His arms and shoulders are covered in tats, his hair a dark brown, fluffy mess, an eyebrow piercing and warm, brown eyes. He doesn’t look up when I enter so I clear my throat loudly. He looks up and eyes me with a critical eye. What the hell? “Do you guys maybe have some Raybans laying around? My brother forgot them here yesterday after his appointment.” He doesn’t answer, just keeps looking at me. I roll my eyes and lean against the counter. “Well?” He finally stands up and, damn he’s tall, probably like 6’3. He disappears in the back and after what feels like an eternity he comes back with the sunglasses. I take them and turn to leave when he stops me by asking about my piercing. Ugh, really?? I turn back and tell him that I got it done because I thought it looked cool and he listens intently as if I’m telling the most interesting story of his life. After I finish, he holds out his hand and introduces himself. Becket Jones. I shake his hand back and tell him my name before turning to leave again and heading for the door. As I reach for the door he stops me again, “Hey, Marisol?” I turn to look at him, hand still on the doorhandle. “Yeah?” He hesitates for a second before speaking, “You’re very pretty.” My heart jumps at the compliment and my cheeks heat up. I mutter a startled thank you and leave.