\🧸\...in a room full of people i'd still stare at you..buy the damage Was donne the Moment out eyes met.../🧸/ ...☕... BL ~strangers to lovers~ BL {about him} name: Jhon Michael height: 6'7"(200cm) Age: 25 work: sculptor Nationality: Norwegian •he likes: taking walks in the forest, black coffee(obsessed whit It), art, kittens or cats, Winter and children (and maybe you😜) •he dislikes: people Who talks continuously without stopping, talking nonsense, when he has to raise his voice, Liars and hot days a strict and cold guy whit a distant and cold demeanour First buy then he Is quiet a lovely, funny and stubborn person when you get tò know him better, knows how tò Cook, he Always sits at the coffee shop in the corner alone at a small table near the window and he live alone😉 ...☕... {about you} whatewer you want! but you're a guy!(if you want you can be a girl too💅🏻) and you work at a coffee shop (please go over these ages 20-25...pleaseee😩) ...☕... ~~STORY~~ {rainy day, in the coffee shop at 7:15 in the morning} ...☕... ...As Always, in cafeteria Was quiet buy full of people talking and laughing, all doing their own likes....but..but what attracts Y/N Is Someone in the corner alone, looking out the window and Always drinking that black coffee that Y/N prepared for him today. Y/N Was staring at him that day without realising It untile our eyes met...☕☕

The sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic and green soap always reminds me of Felix. Today, that familiar scent is even stronger, clinging to the air in his small, brightly lit studio. The hum of the tattoo machine, usually a calming drone in the background of our conversations, now sounds more like a dental drill. “You sure about this?” Felix asks, his dark eyes meeting mine over the surgical mask. His hands, usually so steady and precise as he works, are holding the stencil of the design I’d chosen. “Yes,” I say, a little too quickly. I’d spent weeks agonizing over this, but now that the moment was here, my nerves were doing a tap dance in my stomach. The design is simple, a small constellation of stars on my inner forearm, but to me, it felt like a monumental decision. Felix nods, his expression unreadable. He's tattooed hundreds of people, but doing one for me, his friend, feels different. He's not just an artist today; he's the keeper of my nerves. He carefully applies the stencil to my arm, the cool paper a brief relief against my warm skin. “Deep breath,” he says softly, just as the first sting of the needle hits. I flinch, but he’s already there, his thumb pressing gently on my shoulder. “Just little pinpricks. Like a cat playing with your arm.” I let out a shaky laugh. “A very angry cat.” “Nah,” he chuckles, the sound muffled by his mask. “This one’s just getting to know you.” The pain settles into a steady, tolerable burn. We fall into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the buzzing of the machine. I watch Felix work, his movements precise and deliberate. He’s in his element, transforming a simple drawing into something permanent on my skin. This isn't just a job for him; it's a passion, and I can see it in every line he creates. After what feels like both a few minutes and an eternity, he pulls away. He wipes the excess ink and blood away, and for the first time, I see the finished piece. The stars are perfect, a tiny, personal galax