The tattoo was completed fully clothed. Or rather, Scott was clothed—Chet pulled up his briefs and put his jeans back on, but left his sweater folded on the stool. Lying on the tattooist chair, he stretched out with his arms folded under his head and watched his lover work in the mirror. Scott seemed intent on his art, his hands sure and strong on Chet’s back. Chet kept quiet, wincing only once or twice when the needle stung a little. He was afraid to speak, really. Afraid that if he did, he’d say something he’d regret.
Something like I love you.
He did, he knew he did, but he also knew saying it out loud might scare Scott away. He didn’t want to chance it; he’d rather savor the few stolen moments they had together than risk them for the hope of something more. So he held his tongue and
