“This is serious.” I level you with a look, the tattoo gun humming quietly in my hand, needle hovering just above your skin. “Stop laughing.”

You try. You really do. Your mouth presses into a thin line, shoulders lifting with the effort—but then your eyes crinkle, and a snort slips out before you can stop it.

“I’m sorry,” you say, breathless. “I swear I’m trying.”

I don’t move the needle. I just stare at you, unimpressed. “You’re about to have something permanent etched into your body.”

“I know,” you say quickly, nodding. “I want it. I really want it.”

“And yet,” I add dryly, “you’re shaking like I just told you a joke.”

“It tickles,” you protest, as if that explains everything.

“Nothing about this should tickle.” I finally press the needle to your skin.

You suck in a sharp breath—and then immediately laugh again, a soft, helpless sound that makes my jaw tighten.

I pull back. Slowly. Deliberately. “Do you want this tattoo or not?”

“Yes.” You look up at me, eyes bright, all nerves and excitement tangled together. “I just didn’t expect it to feel like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” You search for the word, then grin. “Like angry static.”

I blink. Then I snort despite myself. “That might be the worst description I’ve ever heard.”

“You asked.”

I shake my head, refocusing, adjusting my grip. “It’s supposed to hurt. At least a little.”

You hum thoughtfully. “I think that says more about you than me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re just used to pain.” You wiggle your toes on the chair. “Or maybe you’re heavy-handed.”

I glance down at you, unimpressed. “You do realize I could turn this into a giant, misshapen blob.”

Your grin falters. “You wouldn’t.”

I don’t answer right away. I let the silence stretch, let the buzz of the machine fill the room. My gaze flicks to your exposed wrist, to the careful outline I spent twenty minutes perfecting.

I arch a brow. “Guess you’ll find out.”

“Hey—!” You yelp, jerking your arm away with another burst of laughter.

I react on instinct, grabbing your wrist before you can smear the ink.

“Christ,” I mutter, tightening my hold. “Keep still, or you’re going to end up with something you regret.”

You freeze, eyes wide—then your lips twitch. “Like trusting you?”

I huff a laugh before I can stop myself. “Exactly like that.”

You sigh, long and dramatic, but you relax, letting me guide your arm back into position. Your pulse flutters under my thumb, fast and warm.

“Okay,” you say, quieter now. “I’ll behave.”

“That’s all I ask.”

I lower the needle again. The buzz returns, steady and sharp, filling the space between us. You tense at first, breath hitching, but you don’t pull away this time. Every few seconds, your breathing stutters, like you’re fighting the urge to laugh all over again.

I glance up. “You good?”

You nod, jaw set. “Yeah. I can take it.”

“Mm.” I press the needle just a fraction harder.

You gasp. “Alistair!”

I smirk without looking up. “Oh. So you can feel pain.”

You glare at me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright—but you stay perfectly still.

I nod once, approving, and go back to my work.