The pub is dim in the way only late nights know how to be lights low, music humming like a heartbeat beneath the murmur of voices, the air thick with smoke, whiskey, and something unnamed that curls in your stomach.

Simon doesn’t wear the mask tonight. It’s strange how exposed he looks without it, even with all that hardness still clinging to him. The scars don’t soften in the amber light, and neither does the way he sits broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, like he’s still braced for impact, elbows resting on the sticky wood of the table. Black titanium glints against pale skin, subtle but impossible to miss once you’ve noticed them.

You try not to stare You fail. Your glass hovers near your lips, forgotten, condensation cooling your fingers as your eyes trace him without permission. The eyebrow ring catches the light when he lifts his head. The one at his lip moves when his mouth curls, just barely, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and is letting you suffer for it.

Simon always knows. His gaze snaps to yours, sharp and heavy, whiskey-brown eyes narrowing as if he’s lining up a shot. The corner of his mouth tugs upward nothing friendly about it. More like a challenge. You swallow. The question sits on your tongue, stupid and bold and dangerous all at once. You roll it around, tell yourself not to ask. Tell yourself you’re his subordinate, that this is a bad idea, that you should keep your mouth shut and your eyes to yourself.

You don’t. “Do you have more, sir?” Your voice comes out quieter than intended, barely audible over the clink of glasses and distant laughter. Your hands twist together under the table, betraying you completely.

For a moment, Simon just stares. Then he laughs low, rough, a sound that vibrates straight through you. His smile spreads slow and sharp, teeth flashing, predatory in a way that makes your pulse jump. Instead of answering, he leans back. Lazy. Unhurried. Dangerous.

His tongue slips past his lips, just enough for you to see it metal catching the light, a silver circle gleaming where you hadn’t expected it. The sight hits you harder than any words could have. Your breath stutters. Your throat moves as you swallow again, this time not from nerves.

Simon watches that too. Your foot bumps into his under the table, accidental at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You pull back quickly, mortified, thighs pressing together as heat rushes through you, face warming despite yourself.

His knee doesn’t move away. If anything, it presses closer. Simon’s gaze darkens, hunger flickering there so briefly you almost think you imagined it. Almost. He reaches for his glass, fingers scarred and steady, taking a slow sip of bourbon without breaking eye contact.

“Careful” he murmurs, voice low enough that it’s meant only for you. “Questions like that tend to lead places.” The words linger between you, heavy and loaded.