"You don't have to get one, you know." Light said, noticing how hard Hope was gripping the chair's armrest. She settled her hand on top of his, thumb brushing over his knuckles.
He scoffed, but it came out weak with nerves. "We agreed we would get matching ones, I don't wanna chicken out," he glanced towards the tattoo artist, who was currently prepping Hope's wrist. "I'm just glad it's not a huge tattoo."
When asked if he was ready, he nodded, and kept his eyes screwed shut for most of the time. The needle stung like hell, but he'd been through worse— a lot worse— and he repeated that in his head like a mantra. Lightning stayed by him the whole time, almost laughing at his expression.
Once it was all finished, Hope's wrist was slightly red and bleeding, but otherwise seemed intact.
"You did it." The rosette leaned in to peck his cheek, holding her wrist next to his to compare. Small Roman numerals spelled out the number thirteen, inked in black.
"Yeah. We did." Hope sighed in, admiring the work.
And for a second, Lightning knew he wasn't just talking about the tattoo.