Ghost had his arm stretched out over your shoulder, your head tucked in his neck, watching a movie in your quarters. But instead of focusing on the movie, your eyes couldn’t peel off of the black ink tattoos on his right lower forearm.

Then suddenly an idea bubbles up in your mind, you bolt up, rambling through your drawer in search for something, and came back with a pack of sharpie fine point markers. You asked to color in his tattoos and making those big doe eyes as a tactic to get him to agree.

“Don’t gi’me that look.” His eyes averted yours so that he wouldn’t be easily tempted by them. But after several grueling moments, he finally complied. “Ok fine! Go ahead.”