Roy’s skin was a living canvas, covered in tattoos that unraveled stories—some of joy, others of pain, and some too intimate to be spoken aloud. You never asked about their origins, sensing the weight of memories he wasn’t ready to share. You knew a lot about his past but still, it didn't felt right to pry.

It was only in quiet moments of intimacy, that you couldn't help but trace the designs with your fingertips, silently admiring them.

In one rare afternoon together, without warning, you suggested bringing those designs to life in full color, using the new marker set you’d just bought. You played it off as a simple test, needing to see how the colors worked before applying them to paper, but that was just an excuse to touch him. Not that you needed one.

Your boyfriend, always indulgent, agreed with a smile, humor in his eyes, never one to crush your artistic enthusiasm. He sat cross-legged on the floor of your shared living room, his body relaxed yet restless, as you worked with precision on his bicep. The box of colorful pens lay open beside you, its bright hues scattered across the coffee table.

Despite the stillness in the air, there was a playful tension between you both, his occasional flexes a silent challenge to your concentration. You swatted his arm lightly, urging him to hold still.

He smirked, teasing you. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, his voice betraying his mischievous grin. “I can’t help it, it tickles.”