Sweet Under the Ink - Short Story

Sweet Under the Ink – A Short Story for Every Tattoo-Loving Romance Reader

Some heroes grab you from the moment they walk onto the page. For me, Liam was one of those heroes. Tattooed from his neck to his knuckles, built like trouble, and wearing a smirk that could melt steel, he looked like the kind of man who would break your heart and not stick around to apologize.

But that’s not the story here.

When Liam meets Hanna, it’s not in a bar or on a street corner—it’s in a small coffee shop, over a chipped mug and a honey cinnamon latte. From the first conversation, there’s a spark. A little banter. The kind of quiet interest that lingers even after the customer walks out the door.

Day after day, he comes back. For pastries. For book recommendations. To fix the broken pastry case hinge without being asked. Slowly, Hanna starts to realize he’s not like the men she’s known before. He’s patient. Gentle. Protective. And completely comfortable letting her take the lead.

But when a late-night walk home turns into a run-in with her pushy ex, Liam’s calm, steady presence proves just how wrong her assumptions were. The walk back to her apartment ends with coffee, banana bread, and a conversation that peels back the layers neither of them show the world.

And then? The slow-burn catches fire.

It’s heated. It’s intimate. And it’s the moment Hanna sees that under every tattoo is a story—and maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to write the next chapter with her.

This one’s for the romance readers who love a man who looks like trouble but treats his woman like she hung the moon. The kind who’ll hold you close, keep you safe, and never let you forget just how much he wants you.

Sweet Under the Ink

Hanna

Meet-Cute at the Coffee Shop

The bell over the café door gives its usual lazy jingle, but I don’t look up right away. It’s Saturday morning rush, which means I’m already four lattes behind and running on the kind of autopilot that keeps me moving without thinking. My world is espresso shots, milk foam, and the occasional “extra caramel, please” shouted over the hiss of the steamer.

When I do glance up, it’s because something at the front window catches my attention, a man crouched low, head tilted, one big hand cupped against the glass like he’s trying to block out the glare. He’s staring at the display of mismatched mugs we keep on the little table by the window.

It’s… not the kind of guy I’d expect to care about secondhand mugs.

Dark hair, shaved close on the sides. A jawline sharp enough to cut paper. Broad shoulders under a worn black hoodie. Ink snakes down the side of his neck and disappears into the fabric.

And then there are his hands. Even from here, I notice them, big, rough, the kind of hands that could palm a basketball. And completely covered in tattoos.

He straightens and steps inside, the door swinging shut behind him.

“You like this one too?” His voice is low, a little gravelly, but not unfriendly. He’s holding the mug I’ve had my eye on for weeks, the pale blue one with the hand-painted daisies and the chip along the rim.

I blink. “Uh… yeah. It’s my favorite. Nobody ever buys it.”

He smiles, really smiles, and it changes everything. The sharpness in his features softens, like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Guess that’s because it was waiting for me.”

I should roll my eyes. Instead, I laugh, and it feels way too easy.

He brings the mug to the counter. “And I guess I’ll need something to put in it. You work here, so… what’s good?”

Most customers have very specific orders. Half-caf, soy, three pumps of vanilla, no foam. This guy? Just handed me a blank check for caffeine.

“What’s good for what?” I ask, stalling while I pretend to consider.

“Good for… starting a Saturday when you have no plans except maybe finding more mugs with little flowers on them.”

That makes me grin before I can help it. “You don’t look like the kind of guy who collects flower mugs.”

“Maybe you don’t look like the kind of girl who works in a coffee shop,” he says easily.

My eyebrow lifts. “And what kind of girl is that?”

He leans on the counter just enough that I notice how tall he is, how the shadows from his lashes fall across his cheekbones. “I don’t know yet. Guess I’ll have to come back a few times to figure it out.”

Danger, my brain warns. This is exactly how guys like him start. Smooth lines. Casual charm. The kind that fades once they get bored. I’ve met this type before, maybe not with the tattoos, but with the confidence, the teasing grin. They never stick around.

Still… there’s something different about him. Something I can’t quite name.

“Alright,” I say, tapping my fingers against the counter. “You’re getting a honey cinnamon latte. Trust me.”

“I do,” he says simply.

It’s ridiculous that those two little words make heat climb the back of my neck.

While I work, I feel his gaze, not heavy or invasive, just… there. Curious. By the time I set the latte in front of him, steam curling between us, I’m more aware of my heartbeat than I should be.

He takes a sip, then nods like I just passed some invisible test. “Perfect.”

I slide the mug toward him. “On the house. The latte’s not, but the mug is yours.”

His fingers brush mine when he takes it, warm and calloused. “Thanks. I’ll make sure it gets a good home.”

And just like that, he walks out into the morning, leaving the scent of coffee, the sound of that low voice in my ears… and the weirdest little twist in my chest.

…………

Liam 

The Daily Returns

I’m not the kind of guy who hangs out in coffee shops. Never have been. Most of my caffeine comes from gas stations or my own kitchen. But that was before I walked into this one and met her.

Hanna.

Even her name fits, simple, pretty, not trying too hard.

I tell myself I’m not going back just for her. That I liked the honey cinnamon latte enough to make the trip again. But when I push open the door the next morning and see her behind the counter, hair loose around her shoulders this time, I know I’m lying to myself.

“Back so soon?” she says, smiling like she’s not sure if she should be surprised or suspicious.

“Had to try the latte again. Make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

Her mouth curves. “And?”

“Still perfect.”

This time, I grab one of those oversized chocolate croissants from the pastry case. She rings it up, and when I reach for my wallet, she notices the faded scar running across my knuckles. Most people look away quick. She doesn’t.

The next day, I bring a paperback I just finished, some crime novel with a twist ending, and slide it across the counter toward her. “You read?” I ask.

She tilts her head. “You’re assuming I have time.”

“Everyone has time for one good book.”

Her fingers brush the cover, and I catch that flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

Day three, the pastry case door hangs crooked on its hinge. I’m halfway through my coffee when I notice her struggling with it, muttering under her breath. I get up, squat down, and have it realigned in under a minute.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, watching me wipe my hands on a napkin.

“Didn’t take much. Just needed the right touch.”

Her gaze flicks to my hands, inked and rough, like I’ve worked with them my whole life, and something shifts in her expression. Less guarded, maybe.

By the fourth morning, I’m not pretending anymore. I’m here for her. I take the same seat near the counter so we can talk between customers. I make her laugh, not with big, flashy lines, but with the kind of jokes that sneak up on you.

And I notice things.

The way she keeps her nails short but painted.

The tiny silver hoop in her left ear that catches the light when she turns her head.

The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s trying not to smile.

On the fifth day, I come in to find she’s already set aside a pastry for me. A chocolate croissant, wrapped in parchment, waiting next to the register.

“You’re making me predictable,” I tell her.

“Just efficient,” she says, but there’s a spark in her eyes like she’s pleased I noticed.

I’m not in a rush. I know better than to push. But every day I walk out of here with something more than caffeine or pastries, another piece of her I didn’t have the day before.

…………

Hanna 

The “Trouble” Moment

The street’s quieter than usual when I lock up for the night, the faint hum of a streetlamp the only sound as I step onto the sidewalk. My apartment’s just a few blocks away, close enough that I never bother with a ride.

I’m halfway there when I hear a voice.

“Hanna?”

I freeze before turning, already recognizing the voice. My stomach sinks.

Cal.

Once upon a time, I thought dating him was a good idea. It wasn’t. He was all charm in public, but pushy when I tried to set boundaries. We lasted two months before I ended it. Apparently, that memo didn’t stick.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.

“You’ve been ignoring my messages.” He steps closer, his cologne too sharp in the cool night air.

“I’ve been busy.” I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and keep walking, but his footsteps fall in beside mine.

“You can’t even grab a drink with me?”

“I don’t want to grab a drink with you.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but maybe that’s a good thing.

He laughs like I’m being ridiculous. “Come on, Han—”

“She said no.”

The voice comes from behind us, low and steady. I glance back and see Liam, hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, walking toward us like he’s got all the time in the world.

Cal bristles. “Who are you?”

Liam stops a few feet away, his gaze fixed on Cal in a way that’s somehow calm but… immovable. “Doesn’t matter. You should leave.”

Cal snorts. “You her bodyguard or something?”

Liam’s lips tilt, not quite a smile. “Something like that.”

For a second, I expect the tension to spike, for Liam to step forward or raise his voice. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, quiet and solid, like he’s not going anywhere until Cal does.

It works.

Cal huffs out a laugh, mutters something about me “overreacting,” and finally turns, heading the other way.

I let out a breath after I realized I was holding it.

“You okay?” Liam asks, his voice softer now.

“Yeah. I just…” I glance after Cal, then back at him. “Thanks.”

He shrugs like it was nothing, but I notice the way his jaw relaxes now that Cal’s gone.

“I thought you’d…” I stop myself.

He tilts his head. “You thought I’d what?”

I hesitate, feeling heat crawl up my neck. “I don’t know. Get aggressive. Make a scene.”

His brow lifts, and for the first time tonight, he actually smiles. “Not my style. I don’t generally fight people unless I have to.”

That surprises me more than it should. And maybe, just maybe, it makes me like him a little more.

…………

Hanna

The Cozy Night

“Do you want to come in for coffee?” The words are out before I can second-guess them.

We’ve just reached my apartment building, and Liam’s been walking beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He hasn’t asked if I needed him to,he just did it.

His brow lifts slightly. “Coffee? At eight o’clock at night?”

“I also have tea. And hot chocolate. And leftover banana bread that’s basically an excuse for cake.”

That earns me a low chuckle, and he nods toward the door. “Banana bread sounds good.”

Inside, the space feels smaller with him in it, like the air shifts to make room for his presence. He moves carefully, as if he’s afraid of knocking something over, even though I don’t own anything fragile.

I busy myself in the kitchen, filling the kettle, slicing thick pieces of banana bread. “You want coffee or tea?”

“Tea’s fine. Whatever you’re having.”

I make two mugs of chamomile and set them on the coffee table, then sink into the couch next from him. He’s leaned back, hands resting on his knees, eyes scanning the shelves like he’s cataloging the books and plants and thrifted picture frames.

“So,” I say, cutting into the quiet. “You don’t… usually rescue women from creepy guys outside coffee shops?”

A faint smirk. “Not unless I have a reason.”

“And what was the reason?” I ask, half teasing.

His gaze meets mine, steady. “Isn’t that obvious? You are.”

I swallow, suddenly very aware of how close we’re sitting.

He picks up his mug, takes a sip, then sets it back down. “People usually take one look at me and think they’ve got me figured out. That I’m trouble. That I’m dangerous.” His voice is calm, but there’s a weight under it. “Sometimes it’s easier to let them think that than to prove them wrong.”

I trace the rim of my mug with my thumb, feeling a twinge of guilt. “I thought that about you. At first.”

His mouth tilts in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Figured.”

“It’s not fair,” I admit. “You were just… unexpected. And guys who look like you usually—”

“Act like assholes?” he finishes for me, his tone light, but not dismissive.

I laugh softly. “Yeah. That.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m more into fixing pastry cases than starting fights.”

That makes me smile, but it also makes my chest ache a little. There’s something about the way he says it, like he’s not just talking about the pastry case.

“Why the tattoos, then?” I ask. “If people are going to judge you for them?”

His eyes drop briefly to his hands, the black ink wrapping his knuckles and fingers. “They’re… reminders. Stories I didn’t want to forget. Some good, some not. But they’re mine.”

I nod, even though I want to ask what the stories are. He doesn’t offer, so I don’t push.

The kettle’s whistle still lingers faintly in my ears, but the quiet between us now isn’t awkward, it’s warm, like the air has thickened with something I can’t name.

“Thank you,” I say suddenly.

“For the tea?”

“For tonight. For… not being who I thought you were.”

His gaze holds mine for a long moment. “Guess you’ll just have to keep finding out who I am.”

And for the first time in a long time, I think I might actually want to.

…………

Hanna

The Kiss

He’s still watching me, one arm resting on the back of the couch, the other curled loosely around his mug. The lamplight catches the ink along his forearm, intricate lines and shading I want to trace just to see if they feel as sharp as they look.

There’s a shift in the air between us, something subtle but unmistakable. My fingers tighten around my mug, and I can’t help glancing at his mouth.

His gaze drops to mine, then to my lips, and he leans in just a little, enough that I can feel his warmth across the space between us. It might as well be miles wide, but somehow, he closes the distance without moving more than a few inches.

I don’t breathe.

“Hanna,” he says softly, like my name is something he’s been holding in his mouth for a while.

It’s all the invitation I need. I lean toward him, and when our lips meet, it’s slow at first, soft, testing, like neither of us is sure we should be doing this but neither of us can stop.

His hand comes up, cupping my cheek, thumb stroking lightly against my skin. For a man who could probably lift me without effort, he’s unbelievably gentle.

But then I shift closer, and his patience fractures. The kiss deepens, heat sparking between us. His other hand finds my hip, steady but not pulling, it’s like he’s holding himself back.

And then, just when my pulse is climbing into dangerous territory, he breaks away, breathing hard.

“We should stop,” he murmurs, forehead resting against mine.

I can still feel the imprint of his mouth, the way it set something loose inside me. “Why?”

His lips twitch. “Because if I don’t, I’m not going to.”

I don’t even think about it. I slide my hands into his hoodie, fisting the fabric and tugging him back to me. “Then don’t stop.”

The sound he makes is low and rough, like I just cracked something open. His mouth crashes back to mine, hungrier this time, and the rest happens in a rush, me straddling his lap, his hands gripping my thighs through my leggings, the press of his body telling me exactly what I’m doing to him.

It’s all heat and friction, his tongue sliding against mine, my fingers digging into the back of his neck where the hair is just long enough to grab. Every kiss, every touch is a little more desperate than the last, like we’re both starving and finally found the thing we’ve been craving.

His hands roam, not greedy but certain, mapping the curve of my back, the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips. I can feel his restraint, he’s letting me set the pace, but I can also feel how close he is to losing it.

When his mouth leaves mine to trail along my jaw and down my neck, I gasp, tilting my head to give him more.

“Hanna…” It’s a warning and a plea all at once.

“I don’t want to stop,” I whisper, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said all night.

…………

Liam

No More Holding Back

Her whisper, ‘I don’t want to stop’ burns straight through me.

I’m trying to be careful. I’ve been careful since I walked in here, but the way she’s looking at me now… there’s no coming back from that.

I grip her hips and pull her tighter against me, and the sound she makes nearly undoes me. She’s warm and soft in all the right places, her thighs bracketing mine, moving just enough to have my jaw locking hard.

She kisses like she means it, like she’s been holding back too, and now we’re both done pretending. My hands slide under her shirt, fingers splaying against bare skin, feeling every inch like I’m starving for it. She arches into me, nails scraping lightly along the back of my neck, and I swear under my breath.

“Tell me to stop,” I rasp against her mouth.

“Not a chance,” she breathes, and then she’s tugging my hoodie over my head, tossing it aside. Her palms skim over my chest, lingering over the ink there like she’s reading every mark.

No one’s ever touched me like that, like they see more than the lines and shading.

By the time I lift her and lay her back on the couch, I know there’s no going halfway. She’s got me, completely.

Her legs tighten around my waist as I stand, her body fitting against mine like she’s been there before, like she belongs there. The sound that slips past her lips when I lower her onto the couch is soft but wrecking, one of those sounds that digs straight under my skin and takes root.

I brace one hand beside her head, the other sliding over her side, following the curve of her waist to her hip. Her shirt rides up, and my palm finds warm, bare skin. Smooth, soft. My fingers flex just to feel more of her.

She’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters. Like she can see past every mark on my skin, every scar, straight to whatever’s underneath. No one’s ever looked at me like that.

When I lower myself over her, she fists her hands in my T-shirt and drags me down into another kiss. It’s hungry this time, all heat and need, her tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my stomach knot tight. She moves under me, hips shifting against mine, and I feel it—how much she wants me. My restraint doesn’t just crack; it shatters.

I strip her shirt off, my hands skimming over the lace beneath, tracing the edges before I cup her through it. She gasps into my mouth, and the sound is like gasoline on a flame. I kiss down her neck, tasting the faint salt of her skin, breathing her in like I could get drunk on it.

Her nails drag over my shoulders, down my arms, like she’s mapping me the same way I’m mapping her. Every touch lights me up, makes me ache in a way I haven’t in years, not just in my body, but deep, where wanting her starts to feel dangerously close to needing her.

I push her back into the cushions, my mouth claiming hers again as my hands work at the waistband of her leggings. She lifts her hips without hesitation, letting me slide them down along with her panties in one slow, deliberate pull. The sight of her bare and flushed beneath me sends a bolt of heat through my veins so sharp it’s almost painful.

I strip off my shirt in a rough tug, kick out of my jeans until nothing separates us but the thin lace on her body. My palms smooth up her thighs, spreading them, feeling the warmth radiating from her. She’s wet, soaked, and the first stroke of my fingers against her draws a sound from her throat that makes me want to hear it again and again.

I kiss down her neck, between the swell of her breasts, unclasp the bra with a practiced flick. She gasps when I take one nipple into my mouth, teasing until she’s squirming, her hands in my hair, urging me closer.

I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, my chest heaving. “Condom?”

Her answer is a quick, breathless “Yes.”

I reach into my back pocket, finding the foil packet I’ve carried for years more out of habit than expectation. Tearing it open with my teeth, I roll it on fast, my eyes never leaving hers. The few seconds it takes have my pulse pounding harder, the anticipation stretched so tight it’s almost unbearable.

When I finally line myself up and push into her, the world narrows to nothing but the tight, hot clasp of her around me. My breath leaves me in a ragged groan. She’s so warm, so slick, and she takes me in like she was made for me. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, and I sink all the way in until I’m buried inside her.

“Liam…” My name leaves her lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.

I move slowly at first, letting us both feel every inch, every drag. She’s gripping me, holding me so tight it’s almost unbearable, but the way she looks at me, her eyes wide, lips parted, keeps me from losing control too soon. I set a rhythm, steady and deep, and her moans match each thrust, soft and broken.

The way she clings to me, physically, like she can’t get close enough, and with something in her gaze I can’t name, makes my chest ache even as my body burns for more.

There’s no going halfway. She’s got me, completely.

Some people see the tattoos and think they’ve already read the story. But right now, buried deep inside her, feeling her grip me like she’ll never let go, I know, the sweetest chapters are the ones written under the ink.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix