The hum of the tattoo gun fills Natalie’s bedroom, drowning out the late-night static from her shitty little TV in the corner. The room smells like ink and cigarette smoke, something almost electric hanging in the air between you. You’re lying back on her bed, your shirt bunched up just enough for her to get to your hip, her name already half-sketched onto your skin in fading pen marks.

“You sure about this?” Nat asks, voice low, teasing, but there’s something underneath it. Something careful.

You lift your head to look at her, watching the way she sits cross-legged beside you, the tattoo gun steady in her hand. Her blonde hair is a little messy from where you ran your fingers through it earlier, her lips still a little swollen from kissing you breathless.

You smirk. “What, you scared?”

Natalie rolls her eyes, flicking her tongue over her lip before turning the machine back on. “You wish.”

She presses her free hand against your stomach, holding you steady as the needle meets your skin. It stings, sharp at first, but then it settles into something else—something grounding, something that feels like her.

“You gonna tell people I forced you into this?” she teases, voice a little softer now, like this means something to her, too.

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “I’m gonna tell them I wanted your name on me forever.”

Natalie’s hand falters just a little, just for a second. Then she clears her throat, focusing back on the ink, on you.

She doesn’t say anything right away, but when she finishes, when she leans back to admire her work, there’s something almost vulnerable in her eyes.

And when she leans down, pressing her lips over the fresh ink, you know you’re fucked.