He sat on the edge of the bed, cradling your newborn daughter in his tattooed arms, tracing a careful fingertip over her tiny hand as she slept against his chest.

"She’s so small,"he murmured, his voice thick with awe.

You smiled sleepily, watching the way he looked at her, like she was the most precious thing he’d ever held.

Damiano had never been afraid of standing out. The ink on his skin had always been a statement, a rebellion, a story written in permanent lines. But now, as he looked down at his daughter, something shifted.

"I’ve been thinking…" His voice barely above a whisper. "About getting them removed."

You blinked, taken aback. "Your tattoos?"

He nodded, his eyes still fixed on the baby. "I don’t want her to grow up thinking I’m…" He exhaled, searching for the right words. "I want to be better for her. A clean slate, you know?"

Your heart ached at the thought. You knew how much those tattoos meant to him, and how much you liked them.

"You don’t have to change for her," you said gently.

Damiano finally looked up at you, his eyes dark and serious. "I want to."