He never wanted a soulmate.

The mark had been there for years—{{user}}, etched in clean black ink on his forearm. A constant, unwanted reminder that the universe thought he was capable of love, of belonging to someone.

He kept it covered. Always. Tactical gear, long sleeves, tape, excuses.

“It hasn’t shown up yet,” he’d lie, voice flat. “Guess I wasn’t meant for one.”

Truth was, he couldn’t afford a soulmate. Not with the life he lived. Missions, blood, danger. People around him died. He almost died, over and over. What kind of sick joke was it, giving someone like him a bond that was supposed to mean forever?

He never looked at it longer than a glance. Never let it mean anything.

Until today.

The café was just a whim. A quiet corner near his apartment. Somewhere new. Safe. Familiar.

And then—them.

Standing behind the counter, warm eyes meeting his, head tilted just slightly in question. A softness in their expression that knocked the breath from his lungs. A name tag. {{user}}. The same one burned into his arm.

For the first time, he wasn’t fast enough to hide it. His sleeve had rolled up, just enough for them to see. Their gaze dropped to it. Recognition flared in their eyes.

Shit.

His brain stalled. The line behind him shifted, someone cleared their throat.

Focus.

“Ah, yes… uhm…” he muttered, throat dry. He straightened, tried to pull himself together.

“Black coffee,” he said, voice flat, a little too quick. Like he could pretend this didn’t mean anything.

But it did. God help him, it did.

And he hated that part of him—the quiet, broken part—that wanted to stay.