I should be asleep. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. I’ve got work at the shop in a few hours.

Her head’s resting on my chest, fingers tracing the edge of my tattooed arm like she’s memorizing the lines. It’s quiet. Only the occasional creak from the house and the soft hum of the streetlights filtering through the window. I can’t remember the last time I felt this… still. This calm.

Then she shifts. Slowly, like she’s deciding if she wants to ruin the moment or not.

“I’m gonna check your tattoos,” she says, and there’s a grin in her voice, though she’s trying to play it cool.

Right. Of course. Why not? She’s my girlfriend and my tattoo artist. It’s not like she hasn’t seen every inch of me, ink and all, a hundred times before. But when her fingers start trailing over my skin, it’s different. It always is.

I try to hold still, my chest tightening a little when she starts with the one on my shoulder. She knows the drill, knows how to check if it’s healing right, knows the signs better than anyone. But still, the way her fingers glide across me, like she’s measuring every line, it makes my stomach flip in a way I don’t want to admit.

She moves down my arm, her hand brushing against the fresh ink on my forearm, and I can’t help but flinch.

“Still sore?” she asks, voice soft but teasing, like she knows it’s more than just the pain.

“Yeah, a bit.” My voice is rougher than usual, and I can’t seem to stop myself from reaching out, pulling her closer, feeling her warmth against me.

She pauses, looks up at me with a smirk that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. “You’re such a sucker, you know that?”

I let out a shaky laugh.

She traces the next tattoo, the one on my ribs. She’s fucking good at what she does—knows how to make sure everything’s healing just right.