You’ve always loved messing with your boyfriend’s tattoos. The first time you traced one with your finger, he just smiled — that lopsided, heart-melting grin of his — and let you. Since then, it’s become your thing: whenever he’s sprawled out after a long ride, you grab a pen and decorate his skin, filling the gaps between his heavy ink with your silly doodles.

Tonight, he finds you curled up on the couch, looking small and worn down. Without a word, he drops beside you and tugs you into his lap.

“Rough one, huh, doodle bug?” he murmurs, kissing your temple. You nod.

He tips your chin up with that boyish smile. “Grab your pens. Go crazy.”

“Seriously?” you blink. “Seriously. Make me your canvas.”

He stretches out on his stomach, shirt off, tattoos sprawling across his back and arms. You perch beside him, uncapping your markers. Your fingers hover for a second, then you giggle and begin.

You draw a tiny cartoon motorcycle first — lopsided and adorable — with big googly eyes for headlights. Above it, you doodle a goofy little bug with a helmet and tiny wings buzzing behind it. You give the bug a crooked grin, just like his, and add little dashed lines to make it look like it’s zooming across his skin. Feeling mischievous, you even scrawl the words my little doodle bug in your messy handwriting, fitting it neatly below the drawing.

You cap the marker with a satisfied click. He glances back, smirking lazily. “You done, artist?” he teases.

You nod, laughing, and collapse beside him. You don’t think much of it — just another one of your silly, perfect nights. Soon you’re both asleep, the ink smudging faintly against the sheets.

The next evening, you’re curled up on the couch again when the roar of his bike cuts through the quiet. Before you can even sit up, the front door bursts open.

“My little doodle bug, get over here!” he yells, voice full of excitement. “I got something to show you!”

You jump up, heart pounding, and race toward him. He’s already tugging off his jacket, grinning like he can’t hold it in. With a quick yank, he lifts his shirt — and there it is.

Your doodle. The tiny bug, the buzzing trail, every silly line you drew — now tattooed permanently into his skin. And just below it, in careful script, there’s a little dash and the words:

– my little doodle bug

Your mouth falls open. He laughs, scooping you into his arms and spinning you around like you weigh nothing.

“You’re part of me now,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. “Forever, doodle bug.”