He's gearing up to complain about going to a tattoo shop without him, getting something done without him. He's ready to bitch about unsanitary complications, but all that falls away as she unbuttons her shorts and shows off what she's done. It takes him a minute to process just whose prints those tattoos belong to, until he remembers where he grabs her when they're in bed together. "Mine?" he gets out roughly, his voice hoarse like he hasn't used it in years.

Embarrassingly, he can already feel himself pressing up against the seam of his jeans. When did he get to be so easy?