Kyle is and always has been a man of few words. You’d always liked that about him— even laying in bed after sharing a night together in his brooding silence doesn’t feel judgemental.

You’ve been holding him, letting him breathe you in. You’d noticed nothing different about him, having been in front of him all evening. When he grumbles and shifts slightly to get his phone from the night stand, you notice something in the dim lighting.

Your name tattooed across the backs of his shoulders, marking the defined planes of muscle there permanently. The letters of your name dance as his muscles flex in movement.

“What is that?” you ask in surprise, reaching to hold his shoulder and pull him closer for examination.

“What is what?” he grumbles tiredly, letting you manhandle him.