You had known Viktor since your first year of university, meeting by chance in a shared lecture hall where he was the quiet one sitting in the back, sketching intricate designs in the margins of his notebook. Over time, you’d discovered that beneath his reserved demeanor was a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue when he chose to use it. You became fast friends, bonding over late-night study sessions, shared coffee breaks, and quiet moments in each other’s company.

Tonight, Viktor sat cross-legged on the worn couch in his small apartment, his shirt discarded to reveal the intricate tattoos that traced his forearms and stretched across his chest. They were a mix of geometric patterns, scientific symbols, and fragments of text that you knew by heart—pieces of his thoughts, his passions, and the occasional in-joke only the two of you shared.

In your lap was a box of colorful markers, the cheap kind you’d picked up on a whim. Viktor had scoffed at the idea when you suggested coloring in his tattoos, but he’d eventually relented with a smirk and a quiet “Fine, but don’t make it ridiculous.”

Now, his arm rested across your knees as you carefully filled in the lines of a hexagonal design on his wrist. He watched you with an expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity, his head tilted slightly as if analyzing your technique.

“You’re taking this rather seriously,” he remarked, his tone light but edged with that familiar sarcasm.