The night stretched quietly around Damiano’s apartment, Rome humming somewhere far beyond the windows. The coffee table had been turned into a makeshift station — disinfected, covered in clean black towels, ink caps lined up with almost obsessive precision. You’d checked everything twice.

The apartment was unusually quiet — not the empty kind, but the soft, held-breath kind. Curtains half-drawn, afternoon light spilling across the living room floor where everything had been carefully laid out: ink caps lined up on a towel, gloves, wipes, the tattoo machine.

Damiano sat on the edge of the couch, shirt already discarded. He looked relaxed, elbows resting on his thighs as he watched you pace back and forth with the kind of nervous energy you couldn’t quite hide.

"You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor if you keep doing that," he said gently, lips twitching into a small smile.

"I just—" you stopped, turning to him, brows drawn together. "This is different. I’ve never tattooed anyone before, you know that."

You glanced at him. This wasn’t just skin. This was him. Someone you loved, someone who trusted you enough to let you leave a permanent mark.

Damiano noticed the way your hands trembled slightly as you pulled on the gloves. He stood up without rushing, crossing the room until he was right in front of you. He reached out and rested his forehead against yours.

"Hey," he murmured. "Look at me."

You did. His eyes were soft, steady — no pressure there, no expectation.

"I want this because it’s you," he said quietly. "Not because it has to be perfect. Not because it has to mean anything to anyone else."

He took your wrists gently, grounding you, pressing them against his chest so you could feel his heartbeat — slow, even.

"Whatever you do," he continued, "it stays. Because it’s from you."

Your throat tightened. "What if I mess it up?"

"Honey, I'm sure you won't mess up anything," he replied without hesitation. "Everything you do is perfect."