You sit cross-legged on the worn leather stool, a tattoo machine buzzing softly in your hand, its comforting hum filling your quiet shop. The fluorescent lights above are dimmed just enough to make everything feel a little more intimate, a little more secret, like the two of you are the only people left in the world.

Simon’s stretched out across the chair in front of you, his head tilted back lazily, a soft smile playing on his lips. His sleeve — your masterpiece, in progress for months now — winds up his arm in intricate patterns of ink and memory. Tonight, you’re adding a new piece just above his elbow: a sketch he doodled on a napkin last week during a dinner date.

You wipe at his skin, the machine buzzing low in your hand. “Hold still,” you mutter.

Simon smirks. “Make it worth it.”

You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, your lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re getting a napkin doodle, not the Mona Lisa.”

He cracks one eye open just enough to look at you, still wearing that insufferable, easy grin. “Art’s subjective,” he says, sounding way too proud of himself.