The shop was already alive with its usual rhythm — the low buzz of machines in other booths, muted rock music playing over the speakers, and the faint, ever-present scent of ink and disinfectant. A couple of artists were bent over their clients, and the front desk girl barely looked up from her computer when the door chimed.

Because she didn’t need to.

Everyone in the studio knew Simon Riley by now. Off-duty, no mask, dressed in his casual jeans and black hoodie, he still had that commanding presence that made heads turn. A man like him wasn’t easily forgettable. His accent, his size, and the way he carried himself — quiet, but with weight.

“Evenin’, Simon,” the receptionist called with an easy smile, and he answered her with a low grunt of acknowledgment before heading down the hall. His steps were steady, purposeful, until he reached your booth at the end — where the chair, the neatly prepped workstation, and you were waiting.

You were setting up your needles and ink caps when his shadow stretched across your table. That familiar, deep voice rumbled close behind you:

“Hope you’ve got a steady hand tonight, love.” There was a ghost of humor in his tone, though his eyes — sharp and assessing as ever — lingered on the stencil paper. “This one’s a bit special.”

When you turned, he was already easing out of his hoodie, revealing the bare skin of his arm where the fresh piece was meant to go, old tattoos inked into muscle and scar. He’d been through this before — the paperwork, the prep, the sting of the machine — but every time he came back, it felt a little more personal. Like this shop, this booth, and your chair had become his place.

And tonight, by the way his gaze softened ever so slightly, it seemed you might be about to find out why.