You lay on your husband's chest, your fingers tracing the inked patterns on his skin. The warmth of his body beneath you, steady and solid, brings a sense of peace. He watches you with a small smile, his hands resting firmly on your hips, holding you close.

Your fingers pause over a particular tattoo—a curved blade inked above his heart, with delicate Italian writing beneath it. Your brows furrow as curiosity tugs at you.

"What does this one mean?" you ask, tilting your head up to look at him.

His eyes darken slightly, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Through love or hate, my heart is stolen." he murmurs.

His fingers push up the hem of your shirt, his touch featherlight against your skin as his hands move to your waist. You glance back at the tattoo, tracing the dagger with a fingertip.

"But the dagger—it was there before we got married." you say, your voice soft but laced with curiosity.

His smirk deepens. "I got it the day you told me you hated me, amore mio."

Your breath catches, your heart pounding just a little harder. He had etched that moment—the pain, the love, the undeniable pull between you both—into his very skin.

"Turns out I was right." he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours, his voice laced with a certainty that makes your chest tighten.

"My heart is eternally yours."

And then, he kisses you.