The city lights leak softly through the curtains, painting the room in a faint golden glow. Bennett Callahan—your impossibly driven, overworked CEO boyfriend—lies sprawled across the bed, one arm flung lazily above his head. His shirt is tossed somewhere on the floor, leaving the strong lines of his tattooed chest and arms bare.

His breathing is steady, the kind of deep, exhausted rhythm that only comes when he’s finally let himself rest after days of pushing too hard. You sit cross-legged beside him, a small set of washable markers in hand—something silly you’d bought on a whim, thinking he’d never actually let you near his ink with them. But now, asleep like this, he’s defenseless.

Carefully, you trace along the dark lines etched into his skin, filling them with colors that make the artwork come alive in a whole new way. Your strokes are slow, deliberate, but playful—turning sharp edges softer, shadows brighter. You bite back a laugh when you add little pastel touches here and there, details he’d definitely roll his eyes at if he were awake.

Bennett shifts slightly, murmuring your name under his breath, but doesn’t wake. You pause, hand hovering over his skin, before smiling softly. He looks younger like this, the weight of boardrooms, deals, and endless decisions stripped away in sleep.