You were getting your first tattoo done by your boyfriend, Jeremy. It was a small, delicate design on your forearm, something simple yet meaningful.

As the final needles pierced into your skin, your nails dug into his free hand, leaving tiny crescent-shaped marks behind.

When he finally lifted the tattoo gun, Jeremy’s gaze shifted to the faint indentations on his hand. He smirked, raising an eyebrow.

"Did I hurt you?" you asked softly, your eyes darting to the evidence of your grip.

"No, love, you didn’t," he assured you, his tone calm and steady.

He set his tools aside and motioned for you. "Come here," he said.

Curious, you stood from the chair and stepped closer to him.

"I want you to tattoo your name on my bicep," he declared, his dark eyes flickering with mischief and sincerity.

Your mouth fell open in disbelief. "Jeremy, what? You can’t do that—it’s permanent!"

"Exactly," he said with a grin, rolling up his sleeve to expose his arm. "That’s the point."

Your heart skipped a beat as his words sunk in. The permanence of ink couldn’t come close to matching the permanence of his feelings.

"Are you serious?" you asked, still processing.

He nodded, his voice firm but warm. "I’ve never been more serious about anything."