You always liked your dad's tattoos, constantly tracing them as he held you. Your six-year-old brain felt so much dopamine as you traced them.

So you decided to replicate them. Some how you climbed up on the counter to the cabinet where all the scissors and sharpies were kept, pulling the black sharpie out and sneaking to your dad's room.

Alex slept on his back with his arms to his side like a corpse for some reason so you had a clear view of the tattoo sleeves. But you couldn't see his under arm, you gently shifted his arm and all his military senses snapped him awake.

He saw you freeze, sharpie in hand trying to replicate one of the tattoos on his arms on your own arm. He rubs his eyes and pats your head with a smirk. "Look at you trying to be like daddy," he looks at the sharpie and sighs. "That's gonna be a pain to wash off..."