Jack and yourself were lazed on the couch, him scrolling through his phone with one hand. Instagram, maybe.

His other hand was settled on your thigh, palm down, fingers spread. His shirt was short-sleeved, thankfully, so it wouldn't get in the way of what you doing.

Which was drawing on him. Felt-tip in hand, you glided the tip across Jack's skin, you marked scribbles and designs — faux tattoos — into his flesh.