Page 4 of Canvas’ Muse

And she has an eyebrow piercing that matches mine exactly, which shouldn't be as attractive as it is.

I've dated. Hooked up. Had a string of women over the years who were interested in the tattoos, the MC cut, the bad boy aesthetic I apparently project. But nothing stuck. Nothing felt like more than surface-level attraction and decent sex. I told myself I was fine with that, that I didn't need more.

But Eden talks about fantasy novels like they matter, asks questions about my art like she actually cares about the answers, and laughs at my stupid jokes about asymmetrical phoenix feathers. And I'm realizing that maybe I've been settling for surface-level because I didn't know what depth looked like.

Now I do, and she's sitting in my chair in her underwear, completely oblivious to the crisis I'm having.

I add the final highlights to the dragon's scales, each line precise despite the chaos in my head. The piece is done. Objectively, it's gorgeous. Subjectively, I don't want this session to end because it means she'll leave and I'll have to figure out if I'm brave enough to ask for her number or if that crosses too many lines.

"Alright," I say, sitting back. "That's it. You're done."

Eden leans forward to look, and her face lights up. Actually lights up, like Christmas morning, like someone handed her the best gift she's ever received. "Oh my god. Canvas. It's perfect."

"Yeah?" I'm already cleaning the area, trying to stay focused on the aftercare instead of the way her smile is doing things to my chest.

"It's better than perfect. It's—" She touches the skin around it, examining every detail. "This is exactly what I wanted. Exactly. How did you do that?"

"You picked a good design. And you sit well." I'm applying the protective film now, trying not to think about how soft her skin is, how good she smells. "Some people move too much, makes it hard to get the lines right. You didn't move at all."

"Military-grade pain tolerance." She's still staring at the dragon, running her fingers along the film. "From dealing with impossible patients and twelve-hour shifts."

I finish the aftercare and peel off my gloves. My shoulder twinges, old injury from a bike accident that never quite healed right, and I roll it.

"You okay?" Eden asks, already in nurse mode.

"Fine. Old injury. Acts up sometimes." I stand to grab the instruction sheet from the counter. "Keep it covered for the first few hours, then you can remove the film and wash it gently. No soaking, no direct sunlight, moisturize twice a day."

"I know the drill." She's still in the chair, admiring the dragon from different angles. "Thank you. Seriously. This is incredible work."

"My pleasure." And I mean it. Despite the uncomfortable hard-on and the internal crisis, tattooing her was the best part of my week. Maybe my month.

Everything is perfect when…

The first gunshot cuts through the air.

Then the second.

Then the front windows explode.

I'm moving before my brain catches up. Pure instinct. I cross the distance to Eden in two strides, grab her around the waist, and pull her off the chair as glass shatters in the front room. We hit the floor hard, me twisting so I take the impact, my body covering hers completely.

She's frozen beneath me, her breath coming in short gasps against my chest. I can feel every inch of her: soft curves, skin’s warmth, the way she's trembling. She's still half-naked, vulnerable, and all I can think is *keep her safe, keep her safe, keep her safe*.

More gunshots. The sound is deafening, violent. Bullets tearing through what's left of my studio. The display case explodes. Something heavy crashes to the floor, probably the shelving unit with all my ink bottles.

I press Eden flatter against the concrete, making myself as much of a shield as possible. The back room has no windows, but bullets don't care about walls. One could punch through the drywall at any second.

"Canvas—" Her voice is muffled against my chest, shaking.

"Stay down. Don't move." I keep my voice low, calm, even though my heart is trying to break out of my ribcage.

More shots. Sustained fire now. They're destroying everything, and I can't do a goddamn thing about it except cover this woman and pray we both make it out alive.

Eden's hands are fisted in my shirt, holding onto me like I'm the only solid thing in the world. I can feel her heart racing against mine, can feel how scared she is even though she's trying to stay quiet.

I want to tell her it's okay, that we're safe, but I don't know if that's true. I don't know who's out there or what they want. Could be the Vipers. Could be someone else. Could be random violence that picked the wrong target.

The gunfire continues for what feels like hours but is probably less than a minute. Then, suddenly, it stops.