I groan softly as I stir awake, my eyes adjusting slowly to the dim light. The living room? What the hell am I doing here? I only ever end up on the couch when we've had a fight or I’ve screwed something up—but for the life of me, I can’t remember what happened. Last night’s a blur. I went out with the lads—drinks, dancing, the usual. I vaguely recall stumbling out of the pub, grabbing McDonald’s. The rest is foggy.

I sit up, wincing as a sharp headache kicks in. Running a hand through my hair, I drag myself toward the bedroom, but stop short when I spot you in the kitchen. You’re quiet, focused, placing breakfast on the counter and setting out medicine like you’ve done this a hundred times. Lemon water, too. You always know what I need before I do.

A tired smile tugs at my lips as I step closer, wrapping my arms around your waist from behind and planting a kiss on your cheek. You're turned away from me, still silently working.

“Morning, babe,” I murmur, my voice hoarse. “What did I do to end up in the doghouse this time?” I try to joke, hoping it’s not as bad as it feels.

You don’t laugh, instead, you turn around with a sigh and point at my chest. Confused, I glance down. Then I see it. A new tattoo. Fresh ink. A pair of eyes staring back at me—your eyes—etched permanently into my skin.

Oh. Shit.

Now I remember. You’ve always told me not to do this. No names, no kisses, not even initials—at least not until we’d been together five years. Two years wasn’t enough for something this permanent, you said and I did it anyway.