Page 2 of Canvas’ Muse

Canvas laughs, a real laugh that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Not particularly. I try to keep my blood on the inside these days."

"Smart policy." I watch as he prints the stencil, the machine humming quietly in the corner. "So how long have you been doing this?"

"Professionally? About ten years. But I started tattooing when I was sixteen." He brings the stencil over, examining my thigh with the clinical focus of an artist planning a masterpiece. "Started on myself, then friends, anyone who'd let me practice. Probably gave some truly terrible tattoos in those early days."

"Do you have any of your own terrible early work?"

"Left calf. A skull that looks more like a potato." He positions the stencil, checking the angle. "I keep meaning to cover it, but it's a good reminder of where I started. This look good to you?"

I lean forward to examine the placement. The dragon curves perfectly along my outer thigh, head near my hip, tail wrapping toward my knee. It's exactly what I pictured. "That's perfect."

"You sure? Once I start, we're committed."

"I'm sure." I meet his eyes. "I've wanted this exact dragon for months. I trust you."

"Alright then. Let's start this."

He applies the stencil with precision, then peels it away to reveal the purple outline against my skin. The dragon looks alive already, coiled and ready to take flight. I take a photo with my phone before he starts, wanting to remember this moment.

"You ready?" Canvas asks, adjusting his equipment.

"Ready."

The first line hurts less than I expected. I've been tattooed enough times to know my pain tolerance, but there's always that initial moment of uncertainty. Canvas works with steady confidence, his hand firm against my thigh, the machine buzzing in a rhythm that becomes almost meditative.

"So," he says after a few minutes, "emergency department nurse who reads fantasy and gets dragon tattoos. Tell me you're not one of those people who thinks the Stormlight Archive is overrated."

I laugh, surprised. "How did you… The books on my Instagram?"

"Checked your profile after you booked. Professional research." He smirks without looking up from his work. "Saw a lot of Sanderson, some Tolkien, what looked like the entire Wheel of Time series."

"Guilty on all counts." The pain is settling into something manageable, a burn that I can breathe through. "And no, Stormlight is not overrated. It's perfect. Anyone who says otherwise is wrong."

"Thank god." He sounds genuinely relieved. "Had a client last month who spent two hours telling me fantasy is for people who can't handle real literature. While I was tattooing a phoenix on his back. The irony was lost on him."

"Please tell me you added something petty to the design."

"One feather that's slightly asymmetrical. He'll never notice, but I know it's there." Canvas wipes away excess ink, examining his progress. "You're sitting really well, by the way. Some people are crying by now."

"Thigh isn't that bad. My ribs, though, that was hell." I adjust my position slightly. "Three sessions for botanical work up my left side. I think I astral projected during the third one."

"Ribs are brutal." He dips the machine for more ink. "I did my own ribs and immediately regretted every life choice that led to that moment."

We fall into an easy rhythm after that. He works, I breathe through the pain, and we talk about everything—fantasy novels, terrible clients, the best coffee in Millhaven, the worst injuries we've seen. I tell him about the time someone came into the ER with a fork embedded in their hand (long story involving a toaster and poor judgment). He tells me about tattooing someone who passed out, woke up, and immediately asked to continue.

"You're either brave or stupid," Canvas says, and I can't tell if he's talking about the client or me.

"Can't it be both?"

"Usually is."

An hour passes, then another. The pain intensifies as he works over more sensitive areas, but it's manageable. I focus on his voice, the steady buzz of the machine, the way his hands are somehow both gentle and certain.

"Question," I say during a water break. "The eyebrow piercing. How long have you had it?"

Canvas touches it absently, like he sometimes forgets it's there. "Since I was nineteen. Got it the same day I got on a bus and left home for good. Felt like marking the occasion."

There's a story there, something heavy in the way he says it, but I don't push. We all have our scars, some visible, some not.