Like he always trusted me to figure it out.
“I’m not,” I mumble, even though I know I am.
He smirks, pushing himself off the counter and stepping closer. “You’ve redrawn that line three times.”
I glance down at my setup, exhaling quietly. “I just want it right.”
“It is right,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
That was Cody.
No pressure. No doubt. Just this steady belief in me that I didn’t always have in myself.
I can feel it all again—the nerves, the excitement, the way my hands used to shake when I first started. I remember walking into the shop that first day, my sketchbook practically glued to my chest like it was the only thing I had to prove I belonged there.
Everyone told me not to do it.
Stick to drawing.
You’re good at painting, don’t ruin it.
Tattooing isn’t stable.
That world isn’t for you.
They all had something to say.
None of them understood.
Drawing on paper was never enough for me. I didn’t want something people looked at once and walked away from—I wanted something permanent. Something that meant something. Something people carried with them.
Cody was the only one who didn’t shut it down.
He barely said anything at first. Just flipped through my sketchbook, slow and quiet, like he was actually seeing it instead of judging it.
Then he looked at me and asked, “You ever hold a machine before?”
I remember shaking my head.
And instead of telling me I couldn’t—
He nodded.
“Good. Then you don’t have bad habits to unlearn.”
I almost laugh now, thinking about it.
That was it. That was all it took.
He gave me a chance when no one else did.
I can feel those nights again—the long ones where everyone else left and I stayed behind, practicinguntil my hand cramped, until my eyes burned, until I couldn’t tell if I was improving or just stubborn.
Cody never rushed me.
Never made me feel stupid for asking questions.
He taught me like I belonged there.
