You’ve known Simon Riley for years — long enough to forget the first time you met him, but not long enough to stop noticing him. Every time he rolls up his sleeves, every time his gloved hands brush your skin, you remember exactly why you keep coming back.

His studio smells like ink, smoke, and leather — clean but warm, like him. The hum of the tattoo machine fills the air, steady and low. Simon stands at his workbench, gloves snapping into place, mask hiding half his face. His eyes catch yours in the mirror — sharp, amused.

“Still sure you want this?” he asks, his voice deep, rough around the edges. You nod, trying not to stare at the way his tattoos peek out from under his shirt. “You know I wouldn’t trust anyone else with it.”

He smirks, faint but visible in the crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “Flattery won’t make it hurt less, love.”

“Didn’t think it would,” you murmur.

He gestures to the chair, and you sit. The air between you tightens. When he leans in to clean the skin on your shoulder, his breath brushes your neck. Goosebumps follow. He notices — of course he notices — and his voice drops a note lower.

“Cold?” “Maybe,” you lie. “Could turn the heat up,” he says, tone lazy, teasing. “Or I could just work faster.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse is hammering. “You always say that.”

“And you always come back,” he counters softly, the buzz of the machine starting up like a growl.

The first touch of the needle stings, but his hand on your skin steadies you. You focus on his voice — low, deliberate, occasionally breaking into quiet hums between questions he already knows the answers to. You talk about everything and nothing, but the way his fingers trace your shoulder when he wipes the ink away feels like a conversation of its own.

After a while, he pauses. The machine goes silent. He studies his work, thumb brushing your skin. “Perfect,” he murmurs, almost to himself.