He's obsessed with her.

No, obsessed is the wrong word. It sounds unseemly. Perverse. He's not obsessed with her, he's just… extraordinarily taken. She has a profile that is nothing short of stunning, and curves that should come with a caution sign, hair that is long and inky dark. But it's the tattoos that he can never look away from, whorls and lines and curves, a tapestry inked over her skin that he's desperate to read.

To capture on film.

He watches her pass in front of his little studio every day, while he takes church directory photos of staid couples, and gap-toothed, sticky-fingered family portraits for young families. She walks by in her flannel and her ripped denim with smoky kohl-rimmed eyes and red lips, and she drives Robin to bloody distraction. She makes his heart beat faster, makes his gaze wander to the front windows every time he sees a hint of brunette. She makes his young son sit with his palms marking up the glass while he watches "the woman with all the drawings" walk by.

She makes him want to throw in the towel on this whole business and take photos the way he used to, before there was a child depending on his income and his alone. Before he'd lost Marian. Back when he had roamed the streets and photographed anything that struck him as beautiful, or interesting, or wonderful.

She is all of those things to him and they've never spoken.

But that's all about to change.

He has a break in his schedule today, from noon to two pm, of which he's spent the first forty minutes trying to screw up the courage to walk the fifteen feet between his door and hers, and the next twenty kicking himself when she'd walked out her shop and past his.

But she's back now, has just returned from whence she came with a plastic take-out sack in hand. Which hopefully means she's on break, and they can… talk. While she eats. She'll love that.

He's an idiot.

But he's not a coward, and he's grown sick of John's badgering, so lunch break or not, he forges ahead and pushes open the door to WICKED EVIL INK AND PIERCING. It's all dark, filigree-papered walls, and too-loud rock music, walls covered in photographs he wishes he'd taken. There are thick binders on the countertop, emblazoned with REGINA and MERIDA and BELLE.

Behind the counter is one of the redheads, the younger one who has more piercings on her face than Robin can think of places to pierce on his whole body. She's in a crop top and cut off shorts over fishnets, chunky platform heels on her feet where they're propped on the countertop. Her hair is wild, it bobs a bit when she nods at him and greets in a surprising Scottish accent, "Hey. What can I do for ye?"

"I, um—I was hoping I could speak to—"

They're interrupted, an exasperatedly sighed, "Get your feet off the bloody counter, this is a place of business," accompanying a shove of booted feet from the countertop. It's the other redhead, the less pleasant one that he so often sees in heated conversation with her.

The girl behind the counter rolls her eyes and sits up straighter as this woman swaps her irritated expression for a faux-pleasant one and turns on him with icy blue eyes and a smile. "How can I help you, sir?"

"He's hoping to speak to someone," the younger girl tells her frostily. "I'd know who if you hadn't run your gob right over him."

The older redhead turns on the young one with a withering look, not doubt about to dress her down (he doesn't know the hierarchy here, but he's getting the impression that the ginger with the smooth British accent outranks the Scot), but it doesn't matter. He's spotted her, the woman he's finally gotten up the sack to speak to, sitting on a stool at one of the tattoo stations on the far side of the room, watching them all shrewdly as she chews a bite of sandwich.

"Her," he says to the redheads, pointing a finger at the woman in the chair.

"Regina?" the older woman questions.

"She's on lunch," the younger one informs succinctly.

"But I can help you with anything you might—"

"Send him back!" she calls—his tattooed marvel, from her far-away perch. "Before the two of you eat each other alive."

The older redhead rolls her eyes, and scoffs, and Robin gives the ladies at the desk each a nod before he ducks right on past them and approaches her. Regina.

She doesn't get up—sits up a bit straighter, drops her sandwich back onto the deli parchment and brushes crumbs from her fingers, but she stays in her chair, looking up at him in a way that makes him feel like he's requested an audience with the queen. He's never seen her from quite this close, and she's even more gorgeous than he'd imagined—every little thing that's captivated him falling away into the background as he discovers coffee-colored eyes and the particular shape of red-painted lips, the scar that slices daintily into one of them.

He itches to capture her in silhouette, to preserve the pop of red lipstick with that red flannel shirt, to discover the chiaroscuro of the light hitting her just so.

He's struck dumb by her up close like this—not mute, but idiotic.

He doesn't even manage to introduce himself, just bumbles, "I'd like to photograph you."

One dark brow rises slowly, doubtfully.

God, he's an idiot.

.::.

Well. Alright then.

She looks up at him, this man who has interrupted her lunch. He's cute, with anxious dimples, and gorgeous blue eyes, and a nervous energy she finds more endearing than she should. She doesn't usually like fussy men, she likes her men confident with a bit of swagger. He's not exactly… bold.

But she's seen him before, in the park with his son. A floppy-haired little moppet who'd once picked a wild daisy and walked right up to plop it onto the pages of the book she'd been reading and introduce himself.

He owns the photography studio next door, she knows, and he always has his cell phone out at the park. Not to talk, like the other bored parents. To snap. He is always, always, snapping photographs of his boy, of the trees, of random pieces of playground equipment from angles she squints to imagine. And very often, from afar, she catches him stealing glances at her, although she has never, not once, caught him taking a photograph.

And they've never, not once, spoken—until now. Not even that day with the daisy.

Regina's gotta say, his opening line… not great.

He seems to know it, though, his jaw clenching, a little breath huffing out through his nose. She takes pity on him, tilting her head and asking him curiously, "You want to… photograph me?"

It's hardly the oddest request she's ever gotten from a man, and at least he's an actual photographer, not just some creep on the street who wants to take her picture.

"You, your shop, the others if they want…" He seems to catch himself then, and shakes his head, says, "God, I'm a git. I'm a photographer, I work next door—"

"I know who you are; I've seen you around," she tells him. "I met your son."

"Ah yes, the daisy." He smiles at that, the mention of his son unruffling some of his feathers. He's far more settled—and more charming—when he tilts his head and smiles and tells her like it's a secret between the two of them, "He talks about your tattoos a lot. He'd like to see your 'drawings'."

Her shoulders lift and fall, and she tells him, "All he has to do is open his mouth to ask…" She feels suddenly like they're flirting, like she wants them to be, so she can't resist adding a teasing, "Daddy," to the end, looking up at him through her lashes.

It works, he flounders a little, chuckling nervously, and murmuring, "Right…"

"I asked him his name, and yours," she tells him. "He told me his was Roland, and yours was 'just Daddy.' He's very sweet."

Robin laughs at that, outright, nodding, and telling her, "Thank you—and it's Robin. You know, if you want something less… Daddy than Daddy."

She smirks, and veers them back on topic: "Okay, Robin. What do you want to photograph?"

"I thought maybe you'd want photos taken for… advertising, or…" It's lame, and he knows it, his shoulders falling as he shakes his head and admits, "I'm sorry, I'm terrible at this. I used to love what I do, and now I hate it. I'm bored taking senior portraits, and family portraits, and wedding portraits and… I'm sick of bloody posed portraits is what I am. I want to take a photograph of something real. And aside from my son—who I have photographed to the point he runs the moment I break out my camera—you are the realest thing I see every day. Every time I see you, I… can't stop looking. I apologize if that's a bit forward, but… you're stunning—you'd make a stunning subject. You have good, um... lines."

Good lines, huh?

"Yes, I'm going to own that one, painful as it was." She laughs, and he does too, ducking his head and scratching at the back of his neck before he asks again, "Let me photograph you, please?"

He's so earnest in his request that she can't help softening to him just a little. And he's obviously flirting, or trying to anyway, and she thinks maybe if he could get past the nerves he might actually be good at it. She wants to find out if he might be, anyway.

So she'll takes pity on him—but she won't make it easy for him.

Regina leans back a little further in her chair, smirks up at those kind blue eyes and tells him, "Alright—on three conditions."

Relief floods him, his shoulders giving as he grins at her (and God, does he ever have a nice smile), and says, "I'm all ears."

"One has to be a portrait, despite how much you loathe them," she ticks off on her finger. "I have an expo coming up, and I could use a new promo photo."

"I can do that," he nods, adding, "Although I'd much rather photograph your work."

"You can do both," Regina shrugs blithely.

"Alright, then. Second caveat?"

She gives him a quick glance from head to toe, then asks, "Do you have any ink?"

"I, um…" He swallows heavily, digs his hands into his pockets with a shrug and admits, "No, not as yet."

She was hoping he'd say that. A blank canvas is always so tempting...

"I had a feeling," she teases, tilting her head as she makes a point of squinting and studying him. "When it's over, you let me tattoo you—and I get to pick the piece. I promise to be kind, and you can veto any design before I start."

To his credit, he doesn't hesitate, just chuckles softly at her, and says, "Please remember that I'm a father, that's all I ask."

"Oh, don't worry, Daddy," she taunts, winking. "I won't give you any topless mermaids or pinup girls."

"Or curse words," he adds, and she rolls her eyes and tells him that's not really her style. "In that case, what's the last condition?"

Regina licks her lips, watching the way his eyes flick down to watch her before he mirrors the move subconsciously. If there was any question as to whether he's interested in more than photography, that's answer enough. So she gives her hair a little shake, and tells him boldly, "Ask me out properly, the way you so clearly want to."

He laughs again, that self-deprecating, shouldn't-be-attractive-but-is laugh, like he's amused she's caught him out. And then he bites the bullet and says, "Have dinner with me."

Regina shrugs, lips pouting a little, brows lifting and falling as she tells him nonchalantly, "We'll see how the photos turn out. Then, maybe."

His smile sharpens into a smirk, teeth digging into his lower lip.

"Tease," he accuses mildly.

Regina just shrugs, and tells him, "You don't want me to be easy. You're bored."

.::.

They meet the next week in his studio for the portrait, and she shows up in this snug skirt and crop top that make his head spin, a sleek jacket that offers a peek-a-boo glimpse of her belly if she moves just right, with her hair all curled and makeup done.

Outside of his son, she's the best thing he's photographed in months, maybe years, and as he takes shot after shot, he feels himself start to come alive again.

He takes dozens and dozens of photos, profiles and straight-on, full body, and three quarter, and headshots. And then she lets him move into something more artistic, a change of backdrop, a change of lighting—black and white shots of her face, her hair, her eyes, her profile.

Her lips.

They banter while he shoots, and he finds himself becoming as attracted to her biting wit as he is to her almost-too-perfect smile. She's snarky, and intelligent, and, he's increasingly certain, flirting as much with him as he is with her.

At the end of the session, she asks to see the raw shots, and she flips through them one by one until she lands on a rear profile, her arm raised up to her face to show off all that ink, a tiny patch of tattooed hip peeking through.

She drops her finger onto the viewfinder of his camera, and tells him, "That one. That's the one that earned you your dinner date."