37. Dalton
DALTON
The hum of the coil machine was a low, steady vibration in my hand, a feeling that had always grounded me. But today, the vibration felt different. It didn’t just travel up my arm; it seemed to resonate through the entire floorboards of the shop.
My shop.
Tidal Ink.
I paused, dipping the needle into the cap of sunset-orange ink.
The smell of green soap and antiseptic was thick in the air—the scent of work, of creation.
Through the large front window, the Florida sun was blazing, painting the street outside in gold and white heat.
But in here, the temperature was cool and controlled, the AC humming steadily in the background.
“You okay, Dalton?”
I looked down at the man lying face-down on the massage table.
Mav was a bear of an alpha from back home in West Virginia, a guy who ran a logging crew and looked like he could wrestle a tree and win.
Six-foot-four, shoulders like boulders, hands that could crush a beer can without thinking.
But right now, he was looking at me over his shoulder with nothing but respect—and maybe a little awe.
“Yeah,” I said, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Just admiring the view.”
The “view” wasn’t just the street outside.
It was the space around us. The exposed brick walls I’d spent weeks carefully restoring, scrubbing away decades of paint to reveal the weathered red underneath.
The polished concrete floors that gleamed under the industrial pendant lights hanging from the ceiling.
The brand new client chairs I’d had special ordered.
The stations set up with top-of-the-line gear—autoclave, ultrasonic cleaner, adjustable artist stools.
And the people.
The shop wasn’t officially “open” in the sense that the neon sign wasn’t on yet, but the door stood unlocked. And inside, a small crowd had gathered.
When Mav had called me two weeks ago, saying he was driving down from West Virginia to finish his back piece—a project we’d started three years ago before everything went to hell with Elias—I’d made him a deal.
I’d waive the final session fee if he let me turn it into a live demo.
A chance for the local tattoo community to see my work, to see what Tidal Ink was going to be about.
Mav, being Mav, had laughed that booming laugh of his and said, “Hell, for free ink? You can sell tickets, brother.”
I hadn’t sold tickets, but word had spread.
A couple of local artists—a pierced omega named Wyatt who did incredible watercolor work, and a stoic beta named Kai who specialized in geometric dot-work—were leaning against the back wall, watching intently.
They were here about renting chairs, potentially joining this thing I was building.
There were also a few curious locals. A couple who ran the coffee shop two blocks down.
An older alpha who owned the surf shop across the street.
And sitting cross-legged on the floor near the window, sketching in a battered notebook, was a teenager with bright purple hair who’d wandered in an hour ago and hadn’t left.
“Alright,” I said, focusing back on the canvas of Mav’s back. “Deep breath in.”
He complied, his massive frame expanding, and I pressed the pedal. The machine began to hum again, and I guided the needle in smooth, confident strokes.
The piece was a beast of a project. Literally.
It started at his lower back as rugged, craggy peaks, the very mountains of West Virginia we’d both grown up in.
The linework was all black and gray, sharp and unforgiving like the terrain itself.
But as the design moved up his spine, the stone softened, shifting into the gnarled, ancient roots of trees.
The roots became trunks, and the trunks became a dense forest canopy that spread across his shoulders.
And now, where I was working on his shoulder blades, those trees were transforming.
The antlers of a massive stag rose from the forest canopy, but instead of bone, they were becoming branches, exploding into a riot of autumn leaves—fiery oranges, deep reds, and brilliant golds that seemed to glow against the black-and-gray foundation.
It was a metamorphosis. Earth to life. Stone to spirit. Roots to wings.
It felt like a fitting final piece to close the chapter on my old life.
“That color saturation is insane,” Wyatt murmured from the back, stepping a little closer. “What brand are you using?”
“Custom mix,” I answered without looking up, my hand moving in a steady, rhythmic sweep.
The needle dipped in and out, depositing ink into the dermis with practiced precision.
“I blend different shades to get the color I want, then adjust the voltage to control the depth and saturation. Keeps it vibrant without going too deep and blowing out the skin.”
“Damn,” Kai said, his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re not just an artist. You’re a chemist.”
I grinned. “A little bit of both. Tattooing’s science and magic.”
The bell above the door jingled.
It was a good place to pause, so I lifted the gun, easing my foot off the pedal. Mav let out a long breath, relaxing his shoulders. I looked up to see who had come in.
Theo.
He was standing in the doorway, holding a cardboard carrier with three coffees.
He was wearing his ‘Game Master’ t-shirt, the one with the twenty-sided die on the front, and his hair was a little disheveled from running his own shop next door.
He looked around the room, his eyes widening slightly at the crowd, before landing on me.
His smile was a quiet, private thing that hit me harder than the machine’s buzz.
“Special delivery,” Theo announced, navigating through the small group of onlookers. “Fuel for the artist.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” I said.
“How’s it looking?” Theo asked, stepping up to the table. He set the coffee carrier down on the nearby counter, then rested a hand on my lower back, a casual, claiming touch that made something warm bloom in my chest.
“See for yourself,” I said, wiping away the excess ink with a damp paper towel to reveal the fresh, vibrant leaves against Mav’s skin.
Theo let out a low whistle. “Damn, I didn’t think you could make it pop more than the line work, but… wow. It looks like it’s glowing.”
“That’s the point,” I said, grabbing my coffee and taking a sip. It was perfect—black, two sugars, still hot. Just how he knew I liked it. “Thanks, babe.”
Theo’s cheeks flushed pink at the endearment, and he ducked his head a little, pleased. Even after everything—after moving in together, bringing their daughter home, after a year of being together—he still got flustered when I called him sweet names in public.
God, I loved him.
“He’s a wizard,” Mav rumbled from the table, his voice muffled against the headrest. “I swear he’s putting magic in the ink.”
“Just skill,” Kai corrected, moving closer to inspect the work. “The depth is incredible. That layering makes the leaves look like they’re floating right off the skin.”
“That’s the goal,” I said, setting my coffee down. “Grayscale foundation, autumn highlights. Trying to give it that 3D pop.”
“Well, the color theory is brilliant,” Wyatt added, crouching for a better look. “Warm against cool. It’s like watching a sunset through the trees.”
I felt a swell of pride. Having talented peers compliment my work meant more than just a happy client. It was validation that I knew what the hell I was doing.
“You got a minute after you’re done, Dalton?” Kai asked. “I brought my portfolio. I’m definitely interested in that second chair.”
“Me too,” Wyatt piped up. “Third chair. Dibs.”
I looked at them—two talented artists wanting to work with me. Not for me, not under me, but with me. As equals. As collaborators in building something bigger than just a one-man show.
And then I looked at Theo, who was beaming with pride, his eyes soft and warm. I thought of Peyton, who was probably picking up Hope from daycare right about now, singing along to whatever kids’ song played in his head this week.
I thought about the years I spent feeling like I was taking up space. Like I was the “and guest” on Peyton’s invitation. The beta who didn’t quite fit, who wasn’t quite enough.
Now, people were standing in my shop, watching me work, asking to be part of my vision.
“I’ve got time,” I promised Kai and Wyatt. “Stick around. I’ve got about an hour left on this bad boy, and then we can talk business.”
They both nodded, settling back to watch.
I set the coffee down and rolled my shoulders, cracking my neck. Theo’s hand slipped from my back, but he lingered nearby, leaning against the counter, watching me work with that same quiet pride.
“Ready to finish this, Mav?” I asked.
“Born ready,” the alpha grunted.
I pressed the pedal. The machine hummed to life again, and I dipped back into the ink.
The room settled into a comfortable rhythm.
The buzz of the machine, the occasional murmur of conversation from the onlookers, the scratch of pencil on paper from the purple-haired kid in the corner.
Theo sipped his coffee, scrolling through his phone but glancing up every few minutes to watch me work.
It was peaceful. Meditative, almost.
This was what I’d been chasing for years. Not just the act of tattooing, but this—the sense of belonging. The feeling of being exactly where I belonged, doing exactly what my soul demanded.
I worked slowly, methodically, building up the color in layers. First, the base coat of sunset orange. Then, the highlights of tangerine along the edges of each leaf, making them catch the light. Finally, the deep crimson-red shadows where the leaves overlapped, giving them weight and texture.
By the time I finished the last leaf, my hand was cramping, and my back ached from hunching over. But when I sat back and looked at the completed piece, all the discomfort melted away.
It was beautiful.
The stag seemed to be leaping out of Mav’s skin, its antlers ablaze with autumn fire.
The mountains at the base were solid and grounding, while the leaves at the top felt weightless and free.
It was a visual representation of transformation—of taking the weight of your past and turning it into something that could fly.
“We’re done,” I said, my voice rough with emotion.
Mav sat up slowly, rolling his shoulders. “Can I see?”
I grabbed the handheld mirror and positioned it so he could see his back in the reflection of the full-length mirror I’d mounted on the wall.
The big alpha went silent.
Then his eyes got shiny.
“Dalton,” he said, his voice thick. “Brother, this is… this is everything.”
I smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Glad you like it, man.”
“Like it?” He laughed, a wet, choked sound. “I’m gonna be showing this off to every person I meet for the rest of my life.”
The small crowd applauded. Theo was grinning, his eyes bright. Kai and Wyatt were nodding appreciatively. Even the purple-haired kid was clapping.
I cleaned up the work area, applied the transparent medical film, and went over aftercare instructions with Mav. He paid me in cash—insisted on covering the tip even though I’d waived the session fee—and pulled me into a bone-crushing hug before he left.
“You did good, Dalton,” he said quietly. “Real good.”
After Mav left, I turned to Kai and Wyatt. “Alright. Let’s talk shop.”
We spent the next thirty minutes going over their portfolios, discussing rental terms, and hashing out a schedule. By the time they left, both of them grinning, contracts in hand, the sun was starting to dip low on the horizon.
The purple-haired kid approached me shyly. “Um, excuse me? I know you’re probably closing now, but… do you do apprenticeships?”
I looked at them. Eyes full of hope and hunger.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Eighteen,” they stammered. “Just turned.”
I gestured to the battered notebook they were clutching against their chest. “That what you were sketching in earlier?”
The kid hesitated, then nodded.
“Can I see?”
They handed it over like it was a relic. I flipped it open, expecting amateur doodles. Instead, I found pages filled with confident, dynamic line work. Anatomical studies, fantasy creatures, intricate geometric patterns. The kid had an eye for composition.
“This is good,” I said, handing it back. “Really good.”
The kid’s face flushed with hope.
“Bring this back next week,” I told them. “Along with any other paintings or sketches you have. We can talk about an apprenticeship.”
“Really?” they breathed.
“Don’t get too excited yet,” I warned, crossing my arms. “It’s not going to be easy. You’ll start by scrubbing floors, cleaning tubes, and answering phones. You won’t touch actual skin for a long time. It’s grueling, unglamorous work.”
“I don’t care,” the kid said, their chin lifting with stubborn determination. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“I believe you,” I said, a small smile touching my lips. “See you next week.”
They practically floated out of the shop, clutching the notebook like a lifeline.
I watched them go, knowing with absolute certainty that they’d be back. I recognized that look. That desperate, hungry need to create, to belong to something.
I saw a little bit of myself in them.
Theo was the only one left. He walked over, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind.
“You’re amazing,” he murmured against my shoulder. “You know that?”
I turned in his arms, pulling him close. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He kissed me, soft and sweet. “I’m so proud of you, Dalton.”
I pressed my forehead against his, breathing him in. “Couldn’t have done it without you. Without both of you.”
“Family,” Theo said simply.
“Family,” I agreed.