The bell above your shop door chimed. You didn't need to look up to know who it was, the familiar heavy footsteps told you that Simon was back. It had been two weeks since you'd last seen him here, two weeks of wondering, trying not to worry. He was a soldier, he could handle himself.

Tonight though, he felt… different. He stepped in with his jaw tight, his dark eyes simmering with something raw. Without a word or glance, he yanked off his jacket, then tugged his shirt over his head, tossing both onto the back of the nearest chair.

The air in the room felt thick. You'd seen him shirtless before while tattooing him, but tonight his muscles were coiled with tension, his shoulders drawn taut. When he finally looked at you, he tilted his head, his gaze sharp and daring.

"Whatever you want," he muttered, voice low and rough. "I don't care. Just… give me something, {{user}}."

You nodded, instantly pulling on your gloves as you tried to mentally plan out what tattoo you'd give him this time. His energy was different tonight, something dark, something that edged on unsettling and desperate.

The tension in the room was palpable, crackling between you like raw electricity.

He sat himself into one of the chairs, reaching up and tugging his balaclava off. It wasn't the first time you'd seen his face, but it always made you freeze up for a few seconds.

You pulled your stool closer, resting one hand on his chest. Beneath your fingertips, his heart was hammering and for a moment he looked down at your hand, as if it grounded him, steadied him with that single point of contact.

The buzz of the needle filled the room, your eyes meeting his briefly. "Simon… what happened?" you murmured, testing his name on your lips. He hadn't let you use it often, you'd only learned it a few weeks ago.

For a split second, his expression shifted; almost as if he would let you in. But then, as quickly as it came, the walls slammed back down into place. "Don't ask," he muttered, voice thick and curt.