She's not planning on ever leaving him, that's why she got the tattoos in the first place. So that she wouldn't need a ring on her finger or the bracelet she wears around her wrist to prove that she loves him, that he's hers and she's his.

Her hand slides over his hair when he drops to his knees, letting the strands slip through her fingers as she pets him gently while he stares at her. "Yes, dummy, actually yours." She's not going to get any old generic fingerprints tattooed on her body and then pretend they're his. Oh, no. She watched her artist with an eagle eye to make sure he didn't fuck up the placement of each tiny little line so that they'd be perfect.