People always assumed Oli collected tattoos because they looked cool.

They weren't entirely wrong.

But the ones that actually meant something were never the biggest, the darkest or the ones fans asked about during interviews.

Those stayed hidden.

Scattered between old pieces and fading ink were tiny reminders of people, places and moments he'd refused to let time erase.

A date.

A constellation.

A lyric no one had ever noticed.

And eventually... your name.

Not because you asked him to.

In fact, you'd told him not to.

"You're seriously thinking about it?" you laughed one evening as the two of you sat in his Sheffield studio, music humming quietly through the speakers.

Oli looked up from his sketchbook, twirling a pencil between his tattooed fingers.

"Thinking about what?"

"Don't play dumb." You pointed at the messy page covered in lettering. "That's my name."

"Could be anyone's." He smirked.

"It's literally spelled exactly like mine."

"Coincidence."

"Oli."

He finally laughed, closing the sketchbook before leaning back in his chair.

"Fine. I'm thinking about getting your name tattooed, happy?" He said geniuely, looking straight into your eyes.

"Why?"

"Because I want to." He shrugged as though it were the most obvious answer in the world.

"That's permanent." Your eyes locked on his.

"That's usually how tattoos work."

"And what if we stop talking one day?"

The smile disappeared from his face. For a moment, he simply looked at you. Then he reached over, absentmindedly nudging your shoulder. "We won't." His voice stayed calm and certain.