“This is serious.” I level her with a look, the tattoo gun poised in my hand. “Stop laughing.”

She bites her lip, trying—failing—to stifle another giggle as I press the needle against her skin.

I pause. Exhale. “Do you want this tattoo or not?”

“Yes.” She nods, eyes bright with excitement. “But it tickles.”

Of course, it does. Because everything with her is soft and light and fucking sunshine, and somehow, even a needle carving into her skin is just another thing that makes her laugh.

I shake my head, smirking despite myself. “It’s supposed to hurt.”

“I think that says more about you than me,” she teases, wiggling her toes. “Maybe you’re just heavy-handed.”

I shoot her a look. “You do realize I could give you a giant blob instead, right?”

Her eyes go wide. “You wouldn’t.”

I let the silence stretch for just a second too long before I arch a brow, gaze flicking to her exposed wrist. “Guess you’ll find out.”

She yelps, jerking away with another giggle, and I grab her arm before she can smudge the outline I spent twenty minutes perfecting.

“Christ,” I mutter, tightening my grip. “Keep still, or you’re gonna end up with something you regret.”

Her lips twitch. “Like trusting you?”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “Exactly like that.”

She sighs dramatically but relaxes, letting me guide her arm back into position.

I bring the needle down again, the buzz filling the space between us, but even then, I can feel her trying to hold back another giggle. Her breathing stutters every few seconds, her lips twitching.

I press the needle down just a little harder.

She gasps. “Alistair!”

I smirk. “Oh. So you can feel pain.”

She huffs, cheeks pink, but she stays still this time.

Good girl.