The tattoo studio was quiet — soft music humming low from a speaker, the faint buzz of the needle breaking the stillness. The air smelled of ink and disinfectant, sharp but clean. You sat beside him on the padded chair, your fingers laced with his, watching the artist trace the thin line of stencil around his ring finger.

"You’re really doing this?" you asked, half in disbelief, half in awe. He turned his head slightly toward you, that familiar crooked smile tugging at his lips.

"I told you I didn’t need some gold ring I could lost with my clumsiness," Damiano said, his voice low and steady over the hum of the machine. "This way, it’s not something I can ever lost, a pernament ring."

You let out a quiet laugh, trying to play it off as teasing, but your throat tightened anyway. He’d said it so simply — as if it wasn’t one of the most beautiful things anyone had ever told you.

"That’s kind of unfair, you know," you murmured, squeezing his hand gently. "You make everyone else’s gestures look small."

He chuckled softly, eyes flicking toward you for a second before turning back to the artist. "Guess I’ll just have to keep setting the standard then."

The needle touched skin, and he barely flinched — only tightened his jaw, his thumb brushing absently against your palm as the ink began to fill the shape. It wasn’t anything ornate: just a thin, black band around the base of his finger, clean and understated, but somehow perfect.

You found yourself staring at it as the minutes passed — the way it caught the light, the way it already looked like it belonged there.

"Almost done," the artist said quietly, leaning back for a moment to wipe the line clean. The skin around it was faintly red, but the mark was sharp and deliberate.

When it was over, Damiano lifted his hand, turning it slowly, the tattoo gleaming slightly under the soft light. Then he looked at you.

"What do you think?"