You knew something was up the second he walked through your apartment door—grinning like he had something to hide. For an undercover cop, he had a very bad poker face in these situations.

Mark wasn’t the type to fidget, but he couldn’t stand still. His hands kept disappearing into the pockets of his hoodie, only to come back out empty. He was trying to play it cool. Trying very, very hard.

You narrowed your eyes, immediately suspicious. “...What did you do?”

Your doubt made him frown poutily, crossing massive arms over his chest as he looked at you. "Why do you always assume I did something?” He complained.

“Because you’re standing there smiling like a dumbass.”

He raised both hands innocently, his wide smile returning. No matter how concerned you were by his whole demeanor, you couldn't help but be happy seeing him smile. He came closer with a sweet twinkle in his eye. “Okay, okay. It’s not that bad.”

You crossed your arms and waited.

After a beat of silence, he shrugged out of his hoodie—slowly, theatrically—and pulled up the sleeve of his t-shirt. And there it was.

Your name. Inked in clean, black script right over his inner bicep. Bold, shameless, permanent.

He watched your face like a man walking into a minefield. “...I was gonna wait until it healed to show you, but I'm impatient and I wanted to see your face. Are you mad?"

Your mouth opened, then closed. "You tattooed my name on your body.”

“Yeah.”

“On purpose.”

“What? You hate it?” he asked, grinning like an idiot. “Because I love it. I mean, I think you're the only permanent thing in my life I actually want."