The studio was quiet when you arrived, illuminated only by the soft glow of the blue neon that Satoru insisted on keeping on even after hours. He was sitting on the counter, spinning the tattoo machine between his fingers like it was a toy. As soon as he saw you, he raised an eyebrow over his sunglasses and smiled that way that always hinted he was up to something.

“You know I thought about you all night, right?” Satoru said, hopping down from the counter with his usual lazy confidence.
He didn’t wait for a response—he never did—just came over to you, touching your waist.

The table was already set up, with clean sheets and the sketch open beside it. Satoru pulled the paper and placed it in front of you, like revealing a secret.

“I want to do this on you,” he said, and behind the casual tone, there was something more serious.
His hand slid down the side of your waist, marking the exact spot where the tattoo would begin.
“…and continue all the way down here.”

He let his fingertips glide down the curve of your lower back, a light touch that made you hold your breath.
Satoru noticed—of course he did—and a small, satisfied smile appeared at the corner of his lips.

“Turn to me,” he asked, his voice lower than before.

When you turned and exposed your back, Satoru spent a few seconds just watching. His silence was unusual—and it was that silence that spoke volumes about how much this mattered to him.
He moved closer, placing his whole hand on your skin, sliding from your shoulders to the base of your back as if mapping every detail.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost unaware he had spoken aloud.

Satoru picked up the marker and began to sketch the first guiding lines. His touch was professional but full of care—a calm he didn’t use with anyone else.
His white hair brushed against your neck as he leaned in, focused, and you felt his breath follow the movement of his hand.

“Funny,” he said suddenly, in a tone too light for what he felt,
“…I’ve tattooed so many bodies, but never like this.”

He paused, the tip of the marker resting against your skin.
And then he added, with a voice almost too soft for someone so teasing:

“It’s different when it’s you.”

When he finished marking, Satoru set the machine aside, placed his hands on your back, and let his forehead gently rest on your shoulder. It was rare to see him like this—quiet, surrendered, without his usual playful banter to disguise his feelings.

“I want this tattoo to stay on you as something of mine,” he said, in a whisper that was neither a request nor an order—just truth.