I’m supposed to be listening to Mr. Lawson drone on about quadratic equations, but my brain bailed ten minutes ago. I’m slumped in my seat, tapping a pencil against my notebook, when she turns toward me with that look - the one that always means trouble.

Her eyes flick to my arm. Oh boy.

“What?” I whisper, raising an eyebrow.

She grins like she’s just been handed the keys to the universe. “Give me your arm.”

I blink, half-laughing. “Why?”

But before I can actually object, she’s scooting her chair closer, and - god help me - I’m already caving. I drop my arm onto her desk, trying to pretend I’m not secretly obsessed with the way her fingers wrap around my wrist.

She flips my arm over, exposing the inside. Warm skin. Sensitive. I swallow.

Then she pulls out a black marker.

She leans over my arm, hair falling over her shoulder, and the smell of her shampoo hits me - sweet, something like berries. I try to look like I don’t care - after all, she's my best friend's sister - but my heart is banging loud enough that I’m convinced the entire class can hear it.

Her marker touches my skin, slow strokes at first, and for the rest of the period I sit there like a statue while she draws something unbelievably elaborate. Every now and then she frowns in concentration, scrunching her nose in a way that should not be legal.

By the time the bell rings, she pulls back, satisfied. On my arm is a dagger - sharp lines, shadows, a snake coiled around the blade like it owns the damn thing.

I try to play it cool. “What d’you think?” she asks.

I shrug. “It’s alright.”

But the truth? I think it’s art. I think she could draw on my skin forever and I’d let her.

She frowns when I pack up my stuff too quickly, walking off before I make it too obvious that I’m dying inside.

⸻

The next morning, she walks into their kitchen and find me raiding their cabinet for a glass of water because her brother left me here alone - again.

She freezes when she sees the plastic wrap on my arm.

She stares. “You got it tattooed?”

I smirk and lift the wrap a little. The lines are still fresh, red around the edges. “Got it tattooed.”

Her face lights up in a way that makes something in my chest clench painfully. “So you did like it?”

“Of course I did,” I tell her, stepping closer. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Her eyes flick from the tattoo to my face, unsure, hopeful, confused - like she’s trying to figure out why anyone would ink something she drew into their skin permanently.

I don’t give her time to overthink it.

I lean in, breath brushing her ear. “Love, if your brother weren’t such a dick, I’d have you mark me up just to get it tattooed. That way everyone would know I’m yours.”

She goes still. Completely still.

I lower my voice. “As I’ve always been.”

Before she can say anything - before I lose my nerve entirely - I press a slow kiss to the side of her neck. Soft. Intentional. The kind of kiss that leaves no room for guessing.

When I pull back, her eyes are wide, her breath caught in her throat.

I turn toward the doorway, hiding the fact that my hands are shaking. “Your brother will be back soon,” I say, failing miserably at sounding casual. “Try not to tell him I permanently branded myself with your art, yeah?”