You’re hunched over his arm, the hum of your tattoo machine low and steady, the needle sinking into his pale skin like inked poetry.

It’s well past midnight — the city’s sleeping, but Barty Crouch Jr. is wide awake and sprawled across your kitchen counter like he owns it. Like he owns you.

He’d shown up at your door thirty minutes ago with that half-manic glint in his eye and said, “I need a tattoo. Now. I’ve thought about it for a while. It has to go here,” tapping his bicep like it’s a manifesto.

You’d rolled your eyes, but he’s always been like this — impulsive, dramatic, beautiful in the most frustrating way. And you? You’re the only one he trusts with a needle and something permanent.

Now, under the golden flicker of your dim overhead light, you can feel his eyes on you. Not judging. Not analyzing. Watching. Like he’s memorizing the slope of your nose and the way your lashes flicker when you're concentrating.

You don’t even look up as you mutter, “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just says, voice low, velvet-smooth and sincere, “Do you want me to stop?”