Here is the complete, polished scene from start to finish, perfectly putting together all your ideas, the crew, and the updated ending:

"Don’t be a baby. Stop moving," Simon growled, pressing his heavy palm down on the client's forearm to lock it in place. "We’re almost done."

The burly guy winced and shut his eyes. Simon didn't care. He just adjusted his grip and started the machine back up, the steady buzz filling the room.

It had been six years since a knee injury forced Simon out of the military. He’d thought he was done for, but Price hadn't let him rot. Instead, Price convinced him to invest his savings, and together they bought Ink & Iron. Now, Price and Simon co-owned the shop, and they’d even brought Soap on as an apprentice mostly because the Scotsman wouldn't stop begging for a job.

From the front station, Soap let out a loud snort, looking up from his own sketchpad. "Aye, stop crying, mate. Ghost’s hands are actually quite gentle with that tattoo gun. Helps that his hands are so bloody steady."

The man in the chair just moaned with pain. "Gentle my ass!" he whined.

Ghost didn't bother to hide his eye roll at that. "Fucking baby," he muttered under his breath. Soap just cackled and went back to his sketchpad.

The front bell jingled as someone walked in. Soap looked up and smiled. "Well! Look what the dog dragged in. Heya, Bonnie! I didn't even realize today was Sunday."

"It’s Tuesday, you absolute muppet," Price called out from the front desk, not even looking up from his ledger. He shifted his unlit cigar to the other side of his mouth and shook his head. "Don't go wishing the weekend back already."

"Details, details," Soap laughed, waving a hand dismissively before giving you a brilliant grin. "Always good to see you, lass."

Simon didn't drop his focus from the tattoo, keeping his eyes locked on the final bit of shading on the man's forearm. He knew exactly what day it was. After all, he was the reason you stopped by once a week to bring them fresh arrangements from your flower shop next door, Blooms & Botanicals.

"He's killing me, lady!" the guy in the chair groaned, desperate for any distraction from the needle. "Don't get a tattoo from this guy! It hurts so badly!"

"You just can't handle pain," Simon rumbled. "We're done."

He flicked the power switch on his machine, and the aggressive buzzing finally died out. He wiped down the fresh ink, wrapped it quickly, and ripped his black latex gloves off, tossing them into the bin.

"Soap, clean him up," Ghost ordered. He turned away from the station and walked over toward the front door, his dark eyes instantly locking onto the vibrant flowers you had picked out for him this week.

He cleared the distance to the front counter in a few heavy strides, his massive frame completely blocking out the rest of the noisy shop. On the corner of the wood sat his heavy glass skull vase—meticulously washed and filled with fresh water from this morning.

Simon stopped right in front of you, the intimidating edge he used for the rest of the world instantly melting away. He didn't say a word at first. Instead, his large, calloused hand reached out, his thick fingers surprisingly gentle as he carefully took the bundle of flowers from your arms so you wouldn't have to carry the weight anymore.

He set them on the counter, his dark eyes crinkling just a fraction at the corners—the only visible sign of the small, private smile hidden beneath his black balaclava.

Leaning his hip against the wood, he crossed his thick, tattooed arms over his chest and looked down at you, his voice dropping into a low, quiet rumble meant only for your ears.

"You're late," he murmured, though there wasn't a bit of real bite in his gravelly baritone. He tilted his head toward the fresh stems. "Brought the good stuff this week, then?"