#inkandneedle

One Year Later

Simon runs his gloved hand over the transfer paper. It adheres to your skin, the temporary stencil bleeding through the flimsy film as it sits.

“Ready?” he asks, glancing up.

Anticipation is a tightly wrapped coil. It weaves around the bones in his chest, twisting until it’s all he understands. It’s not anxiety or fear or a sense of impending doom. This anticipation is steeped in joy—of a bright future.

Your answer is a smile, one so full of affection that Simon temporarily loses himself in your beauty. Finally. Finally. He’s inking your skin in more than just his kisses and touches.

“Ready,” you affirm.

Slowly, Simon begins to peel back the paper, leaving a temporary stencil behind. “Have a look.”

Shifting in the tattooing chair, you slip off and approach the full-length mirror. You turn several times, admiring it from all angles. While he’s trying to remain professional, he’s far too distracted by how you’re beaming. Elation and excitement are clear in the way you carry yourself.

“Can I show them?” you ask.

As if Simon would deny you anything.

“Course, love,” he chuckles.

With a gleeful giggle, you rush over to Evie. “What do you think?”

Evie, engaged in conversation with Johnny, turns. Eyes widening slightly, she leans in as you show off the stencil. “I love it.”

“What about the placement?” you ask. “Should it go somewhere else?”

Evie shakes her head. “I think it’s lovely.” She glances at Johnny. “What do you think?”

And Soap blushes—actually blushes under Evie’s attention. “Looks good.”

Lillian sits on the floor at their feet, lightly tugging on Bravo’s ears. The German Shepherd remains passive, allowing her to crawl all over him.

“Dog,” she says. “Dog.”

Bravo gives her little fist a lick, sending her into a giggle fit.

Simon observers this small group of people. The family is not complete, and yet there is wholeness in Simon’s heart—a sense of relief. Contentment.

As you return to him, Simon cannot help but offer up his hand, the need to touch you—even for a moment—is far too precious a thing to ignore. When your hand slides into his, Simon’s thumb lightly brushes over your ring finger. It’s empty. For now, at least. One day soon, he’ll ink your skin there, and you will do the same for him.

“Happy with this?” asks Simon as you slide back into the tattoo chair.

“Very,” you beam.

All that work, hours of sketching, of not knowing what you might like. To drafts, references, and back to drafting again. But you’ve selected one, made a decision, following through on that offer you made all that time ago when you first arrived back into his life.

How grateful Simon is.

A treasure.

All his.

Tugging the rolling cart closer, Simon flips on the tattoo gun, the subtle buzzing filling the air. He dips it into the ink, ready to bring it to skin.

“Ready Mrs. Riley?”

Simon’s voice is a gentle tease, a soft thing that’s only meant for you. It’s a snapshot. A flash of a moment. Everything he hopes for, and the future the two of you will share together all wrapped up in a few words and a name.

You soften then upon hearing your new last name.

Three Months Later

Healing isn’t linear. It is not kind or forgiving. The strangeness of therapy is how it resembles a spiderweb, beautiful at a glance but a lie. There is nothing beautiful in facing what you wish to leave behind. Sticky and lethal and pure carnage rehashed over and over again until talking it out becomes a numbing dullness.

Hope therapy goes well today. Love you.

Evie’s text stares up at you from the phone screen. She’s been a good friend through all of this, giving you space yet standing by your side. How the roles have reversed, become opposite from where it all started.

Bravo’s wet nose pushes into your palm, forcing your attention away from the phone screen.

“Hello, Bravo,” you croon softly, scratching the underside of his chin. “You good boy. Best boy!” His tail whips around in a circle, kicking up a breeze.

Simon’s dog has attended every therapy session with you. At first, you thought is strange that Simon insisted on it, but now you can’t imagine not having the German Shepherd there. Nearly all of your appointments occur during 141 Ink’s business hours. Simon cannot join you in person, but he can send a piece of himself along.

“Where’s your dad?” you tease. “Do you see him?”

Bravo stretches his neck, glancing around for Simon. It lasts only a moment. He is clearly far more interested in the attention you’re giving him.

“He is right here.”

Simon’s voice wraps around like a warm hug. You went without it for so long that now it’s a treat every time you hear him speak.

Bravo pivots out of your touch, taking a step forward to situate himself between you and Simon.

Simon’s eyebrows rise slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest. The body language stands in stark contrast to his massive grin. “Protecting her, are you? Even from me?” Bravo half-whines, half-barks. Simon chuckles. “That’s my boy.”

He gives Bravo a quick pat on the head before stepping around the dog. You immediately lean into Simon, one hand pressing into his chest as he cups the side of your neck, his thumb resting on the front of your throat. There is a protective, nearly primal quality to the way Simon’s features shift as his attention turns to you

“Am I late?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No.” Presenting your mouth, Simon descends slowly, meeting you with a serenely sensual kiss.

All the quiet, simmering anxiety that sits in the back of your mind melts away like a last snow, leaving behind a plethora of green grass that reaches for the sun. Simon is your beacon in the dark, the candle flame that lights your way.

One kiss is not enough. You need a second. A third.

The old flame of desire snakes upward, slithering between your bones to settle in your chest. It is asking for the thing you’ve denied yourself the last three months—an intimacy you had with Simon before everything happened.

A fourth kiss. A fifth. Desire tightens its languid body, constricting until your breath catches.

“Get a room!”

The voice of a passing stranger breaks the enchantment, the building desire retreating to hide amongst brown leaves and sticks.

Your cheeks grow hot just as a scowl appears on Simon’s face. Shoulder’s straightening, Simon is gearing to tell the interloper off, but you grab at Simon’s hand the second he begins to turn. A light tug is all it takes. Just your touch, and Simon’s scowl recedes to a soft smile that he only ever gives to you.

With a quick shrug of his shoulders, Simon clears his throat and takes Bravo’s offered leash, wrapping it around his tattooed knuckles. He places his hand low on your back, ushering you toward his parked car.

“How was therapy?”

Simon asks every time—a loaded question.

You exhale through your nostrils, briefly glancing away from him because telling the truth is fucking hard, especially when it involves him. You settle on a half-lie.

“Fine,” you reply. “Productive.”

Fine? Yes. Productive? No.

Simon’s head tilts slightly, gaze assessing like he doesn’t entirely believe you. “Up for company today?”

This you can appreciate it. Simon may always ask how therapy went but he never pushes further than you’re willing to give.

“Not really,” you answer, this time truthfully.

Evie’s unanswered text is as much a reminder as Simon’s questions. Things are different now. Normal cannot be what it once was. There are fractures you hold in your heart, memories that you wish you could erase with a quick snap of the fingers.

Simon nods, apparently content with your answer. “Then we’ll go home.”

It’s a short walk to the car, but you savor every second, leaning against Simon with each step. He talks your ear off about nothing, filling the air with what he did at the shop today, and the customers he had even as he helps you into the car.

It’s a lovely distraction. Which is why Simon is doing it at all. He knows. He understands. Simon is not a chatty person, he’s usually blunt with his words, more to the point than anything else. He prefers fewer words than long-winded nothings, and him keeping you distracted like this goes against everything he’s comfortable with.

But Simon doesn’t know what you talk about in those sessions with the therapist, and you refuse to share it with him. He also doesn’t ask, and for that, you’re fucking grateful. You’re still coming to terms with it yourself, shuffling through the two and a half months you were gone.

Sometimes, you think things would be easier if Kit had just hurt you. That’s the expected thing, to be mutilated in unforgiveable ways. You think about his choices often, what was going through his head, and why he never raised a single hand to you. The silence you received instead is almost worse somehow. Kit refused to speak with you, and the only other person who saw was the man that brought you your meal. He refused to say anything to you—refused to even glance in your direction. It wasn’t until the coffin that you heard the first human voice other than your own in two months.

And the voice was Simon’s. Not Kit’s. Simon’s.

Today, you talked about the coffin.

Not that you actually remember it. You only saw it after you were released from the hospital. Simon took you to some military base because Captain Price thought that seeing it in person might trigger a memory. He was firmly against it, insisted that you didn’t have to do this, but you pushed back, wanting to see what that monster put you in. Simon backed down, but setting your gaze on the thing that you nearly died in turned your limbs to stone and your mind to smeared jelly.

Simon was fucking furious. You’ve seen him upset—and you thought you knew what anger looked like on him. How wrong you were. Kyle stepped in and escorted you out of the room. You might have been on the other side of the wall but it only damped the screaming match that happened. Their words were heated, the exchange loud, and though you didn’t catch all of it, you picked up pieces.

Don’t involve her again.

This is my price to pay.

She’s suffered enough.

Kyle, while leaning against the wall next to you and fidgeting with his watch, had given you a solemn smile, an attempt to reassure but only left you feeling hollow.

“Don’t fret over it,” he had said. “Simon loves you is all. Price knows that.”

“They’re screaming at each other,” you murmured.

Kyle shrugged, the smile becoming more sincere and genuine. “Price will hug him after he’s done yelling. Simon will grunt.” He winked. “All good, love. Promise.”

Simon never brought you to another military base or anything to do with what happened again. If anyone reached out to him to insist, you never heard about it.

But of what you do remember, it’s of what happened before the coffin, how Kit smiled when he brought you your meal. You didn’t know it was drugged then. He hid it well, disguising the taste and texture. You should have known something was wrong when Kit sat on the floor across from you and watched you gobble up every bite. But you had been hungry, and having another person near felt so comforting in the moment.

“Movie sound good?”

You inhale sharply, turning toward Simon’s voice. He’s standing next to you, passenger door open, the middle of the brow creased with concern by your reaction. The two of you are already home.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “What did you ask?”

The corners of his lips turn downward. You’ve slipped off again—left reality for a bit.

“A movie,” repeats Simon. “After dinner. Thought we could stay in tonight.”

Bravo shoves his face between the front passenger seat and the interior of the car. His dark eyes dart between the two of you, impatience clear in the way his tail thump thump thumps against the backseat.

“Great,” you reply, slipping out of the car.

Simon’s gaze remains impassive, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes your hand, Bravo trotting along behind the two of you.

Inside, Simon takes your coat, hanging it up next to his before heading into the kitchen to start the kettle. It’s April now, but the weather is still chilly on occasion, and you could go for a tea.

“The new visa should arrive soon,” says Simon, flipping the tap on the electric kettle. “Price made a few calls.” Grabbing two mugs from the cupboard, he sets them down on the counter before turning around to face you. “Could get you a different one. A longer stay.” He pauses, a hopefulness twinkling in his eye. “Citizenship even.”

With everything that’s happened, Simon still wants you here, with him. Hands clasped in front of you, you meander into the kitchen, almost sauntering in the way you approach him. Simon’s eyelids grow heavy, that earlier desire forming in his gaze. The two of you have touched and kissed, but the few times any further intimacy has been initiated, it’s been by Simon. You weren’t committed then, still confused and dripping with a sense of being unclean.

When you’re ready. No rush.

Respect for you outweighs his desire. Simon made you aware in other ways—subtle glances and touches, gentle compliments—but never pushed, never made you feel like sex is an expectation. He handed you the ball and bat with the only request that you swing when ready.

“Is that what you want, Simon? For me to stay?”

As you draw closer, Simon’s hands instinctually reach out to you. You do not shy away but step into his embrace. Those large, tattooed hands of his clutch your waist, pulling you closer until you’re nearly flush against him.

“There are few things I want more.”

“Only a few?” you tease, and you’re greeted with a warm smile.

“Nothing, then.”

The kettle starts to boil, but Simon ignores his, all of his attention focused on you.

“I don’t want to watch a movie. Think I’d like to do something else.”

Simon shrugs. “Course, love. Whatever you want.” He shifts slightly to plop a teabag into each mug and then carefully pours the water over the top. “We can watch the next episode of that show—”

“No,” you interject, and Simon sets the kettle down. “I mean—” You lick your lips, unsure of how you want to approach this. “I want to…try.”

Simon blinks. “Try,” he says slowly. “Try…what?”

It takes every ounce of control to not laugh at Simon’s confusion. Placing your hand on his chest, you slide it lower, and lower still until the confusion on his face melts away and realization dawns. Without breaking eye contact, Simon grasps your wrist and draws your hand away as it falls dangerously close to brushing against his groin.

“Only if you’re ready,” he murmurs, though you hear the hunger. “Don’t do it on my account.”

“I miss you.”

“I’m right here, love.”

As you press into him, Simon’s resolve splinters. Your face is upturned, lips slightly parted in offer, and Simon’s mouth is just shy of connection. You breathe him in just as he does you. There is nothing you want more, to be consumed by him, to reconnect in the one way you’ve been without.

Simon lightly grasps the bottom-half of your face. “After dinner,” he says, and the curling need pooling low in your belly squirms with discontent.

“Now,” you breathe, a demand.

Simon’s eyelids flutter. Close. He takes a deep, steadying breath before opening them again. “If I sink inside you right now, I won’t last.”

The admission only enflames the already burning embers. You desperately need to cross this hurdle, to find this intimacy with Simon again. With one hand free, you gently cup him through his jeans, rubbing, finding him hard and wanton.

Simon growls, and then you’re being lifted. He shoves everything out of the way, hot water spilling into the sink and onto the floor. The tea is forgotten, the bags briefly floating in the sink before the water disappears down the drain.

“I’m not taking you like this,” says Simon, forehead pressing against yours. “We’re having tea. Dinner. And only after will I indulge you.”

“Think the tea is ruined, Simon.”

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, closing the distance to seize you in a fierce kiss.

Everything about it is honey-drenched. Sticky. Slightly sweet. You open for him, and he goes for a taste, his hand on your throat like a collar. This is the passion you remember; the wanton need you crave.

It is not gone. Only buried.

As your hands roam, the kissing only becomes more desperate. Your thighs trap his waist, but he makes no move to retreat. Not like you could stop him. He’s far stronger than you, and even in that strength he’s aware of it, not grasping too tightly.

Fingers delve, and in seconds you have the front of Simon’s jeans open, slipping your hand inside to find his warmth. As your fingers brush his skin, Simon breaks the kiss, nearly choking on his next breath as he draws back.

“Dinner first,” he groans, grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand from his pants. “Food first.”

“You’re a tease, Simon Riley,” you whimper.

He chuckles, low and knowing. “Like making you squirm.”

Dinner is a much longer affair than you’d like, as if Simon has an eternity to feed you. Every time you try to help, he shoos you off, telling you to relax and enjoy your cuppa. You eventually give up, curling up with Bravo on the sofa watching reality television as Simon putters about.

When he finally hands you your plate, you scarf it down in record time, promptly setting it aside to stare at Simon longingly.

“After,” he repeats.

“Buzzkill.”

Simon reaches over and squeezes your thigh, returning to his meal, gaze locked on the television. You try to refocus, but your mind is locked on a singular goal like you’re a man thinking with his dick and not his brain.

With a final scrape of his fork across his plate, Simon clears it, sighing with contentment. Reaching for your plate, he starts cleaning up, still insisting that you don’t move from the couch at all. This time, you don’t put up a fight, deciding it is better to snuggle with Bravo.

“Bed, Bravo,” snaps Simon. The German Shepherd grumbles as he lifts his head from your lap and dramatically slides off the couch. “To think you used to sniff out bombs,” mutters Simon, shaking his head. “Off with you.”

Bravo disappears down the hall, and then Simon is turning to you, holding out a hand in offering. “Come here to me.”

The delivery in his voice leaves no room for denial. Pushing off from the couch and reaching for his hand is easy. You want this—need this.

Simon’s arms go around you, holding you close. That soft smile returns and you answer it with one of your own.

“Still want to do this?”

“I’m sure.”

Simon’s thumb lightly grazes the line of your jaw. “Tell me if you want to stop. Promise me.”

“Promise,” you murmur.

“That’s my girl.”

With your hand in his, Simon walks backward into the bedroom. He pulls you in as he shuts the door, teasing a kiss but not giving it to you. You try to steal one anyway, but Simon knows you too well, leaning away at the last second as he slips his hand from yours.

There is no mask. No anymore. Haven’t seen it at all unless he’s at the shop, working. His sweatshirt goes, followed by his shirt, leaving him bare from the waist up. Even in the dark with a just a hint of moonlight, you can glimpse him.

Corded muscle. Endless tattoos.

Your hands copy his movements, removing an article of clothing one at a time. All this time you’ve been rushing, and now that you’re here, the undressing is slow. Languid. Simon is done before you, and even in the dark you notice the way his hands clench and unclench with the anticipation of touching you.

You barely have your socks and pants off before Simon is grasping for you, hands groping ass and hip, mouth coming down on yours with desperation. In this, you feel utterly wanted, as if there is nothing he requires more than to be one with you.

Simon’s erection presses into your lower stomach, an insistent thing that both of you ignore. His kisses are your favorite, you want them forever, and that is all you can focus on even as your grow slicker between the thighs.

You drape your arms over his shoulders and then connect them behind his neck, clinging like he’ll disappear if you don’t. Simon’s hands slide over your back and down to your ass, filling his hands as squeezing. Angling your hips up a bit, he rubs himself against you, a low groan leaving him as the base of his erection brushes the side of your clit.

Forget slow. Forget the fact that Simon admitted he wouldn’t last.

Unlocking your arms from around his neck, you reach back and grab one of Simon’s groping hands. Bringing it between your bodies, you guide his fingers to your pussy, desperately needing him to touch you. His thick fingers slide easily over your sex, your arousal apparent.

You shiver from the contact, but Simon? Simon growls, low and feral, and utterly primal. Flattening three fingers against your sex, Simon parts you, the middle finger teasing your entrance with a soft caress. It hovers, and then starts to slide in.

Simon’s lips move away from your mouth and to your chin, then to your jaw, and then your throat. More of his finger enters.

“I missed you,” you whimper as he settles to the knuckle. Simon’s teeth graze your neck as his finger begins to slide back out. “Every. Day.”

Simon adds a second finger, pumping both in perfect rhythm. “I’m here now, love. Right here. Not going anywhere.”

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp as Simon’s palm rubs against your clit. “I—love—”

“Love, what?” coaxes Simon.

“You. I love you.”

Simon’s teeth no longer graze but they don’t bite down. They trace a line up your throat before taking a nip at your bottom lip. His fingers begin to retreat again but you grasp the back of his hand, pressing, urging him back inside.

“Don’t be gentle with me,” you murmur, rocking your hips, fucking yourself on his fingers. “Fuck me the way you want to. Please.”

Simon’s head tilts to the side. “You sure about that, love?”

You whimper, nodding, pussy clenching around his fingers as his palm lightly rubs against your clit again. It’s lovely—slowly building that orgasm you so desperately crave. But then Simon’s fingers are gone and in his mouth, sucking them clean.

Your brain short circuits, unable to comprehend the change until Simon is guiding you onto all fours on the bed. He places a hand on your upper back, urging your front into the mattress as your ass stays up in the air. Guiding your legs apart, you expect him to settle between, to mount you and rut.

His mouth finds you instead, tongue parting your pussy from clit to opening then back again. You press back against his mouth and Simon makes a feast of you. The orgasm is a slap in the face. It doesn’t arrive slowly but as a thunderous force, nearly smashing you over the head with its intensity.

Thighs quiver. Legs shake. You cry out so loud you think Simon might stop. He doesn’t. He only continues through the ordeal, urging toward another and yet another until there are tears in your eyes. Only then does he draw back, wettened lips kissing the backs of your thighs and the curve of your ass.

His strong hands rub up and down the length of your back. Soothing and comforting at first, but then demanding, helping you turn until you’re facing him. Limbs like jelly, you allow Simon to draw you into his lap, to ease your legs to fall on either side of him, to help guide you to and then onto his cock.

“Want me to stop?” he asks, voice gruff.

You vehemently shake your head. “No. Want you. Always.”

With a final effort, Simon rocks his hips up just as he presses down on your hips. Every inch is inside of you, stretching, filling. You’re full of him, but it’s not enough. You need him to move.

“Simon,” you beg.

Shifting his arms, he supports you with his hands and forearms as well as his thighs. It forces your legs up and open, ankles and feet dangling. A slice of moonlight cuts through the room, highlighting the space where your bodies meet. With your forehead resting against his cheek, you watch as Simon guides you up and down his length, disappearing and then reappearing with a shine.

Keeping one arm hooked behind his neck, you reach between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. You create a v with index and middle finger, parting your pussy to open you up more, to capture the place where Simon’s cock penetrates you.

He’s hardly keeping it together as you tease the base of his cock with a fingernail Simon’s whimper instinctually has your pussy tightening around him.

“I want you to come inside me,” you whisper, breath brushing over his cheek. Simon’s hands tighten, fingers digging into your flesh as he ceases sliding and starts thrusting. “Please,” you add with a hint of longing.

He cannot say no. Simon never does.

In seconds, Simon has you on your back, flattening you against the bed. With one hand above your head, fisting the sheets, he rests the other on the inner thigh of your left leg, holding it wide and open for a better angle.

Simon’s first thrust is brutal. He buries his face against your neck, and doesn’t fucking stop. Every time your bodies connect, he grunts loudly. The muscles in his back bulge beneath your palms.

This is not healing. This is carnage. This is a burial.

Simon is digging your grave but not to leave you to rot. You are to be wholly submerged, wholly undone in the dark, to be thread unspooled. You will linger in this grave, in Simon’s arm, to know only of him. And then, only then, will you be unearthed from the dirt.

In the morning, with the light, there will be a calmness that smothers all. A closing of a door that will never be reopened. There is no definition in past, only a resounding future, and you must take it—seek it.

“I love you,” groans Simon.

His words are what does it, that breaks the flood, and shows you the way forward.

“You’re mine.”

These words are not a groan, more a plea. You’re mine because he wants it so, and all you need to do is agree.

Mine.

Mine.

Then

“You’ll pull a muscle in your neck sleeping like that.”

Like a dog on a chain, Simon is yanked from sleep. The world tilts, and then becomes laser-focused. Inhaling deep, Simon silently tells his nerves to fucking knock it off. The danger has passed. You are safe, and this is a friend.

Captain John Price lingers at the end of your hospital bed, hat off and tucked under his arm. There is a sympathetic quality to his expression that Simon can only describe as pity. If he weren’t so concerned about you, Simon might consider it a blow to his ego.

“I’ve slept on worse,” replies Simon.

Price nods. “I know.”

And it’s true. He does. They’ve been through hell together, seen and done so much awful shit that their present, past, and future are forever tangled.

A monitor beeps, and Simon’s attention shifts to you slumbering in your hospital bed.

“I’m not waking her up,” says Simon, not taking his gaze away from you.

“Didn’t ask,” murmurs Price. “Not why I’m here.”

This time, Simon glances away, curiosity pulling at the folds of his brain, wanting to absorb whatever it is Price has come here to say.

“Can I sit?” asks Price.

With a nod, Simon indicates an unoccupied chair near the window. Price goes to it, bringing it within distance of Simon. Setting it down silently, Price eases onto the cushion, sighing as he relaxes. While Price lounges, he remains quiet, observing you in your slumbering state.

“Captain,” prompts Simon as a gnarling fist of tension grips his stomach.

Price shifts slightly, clasping his hands together, and resting them over his stomach. “We did a sweep of the house. Nothing.”

Simon grunts. “Hardly expected more.”

“But we’re not empty handed.”

“You found something?”

Price nods. “Walsh didn’t come alone.”

Simon sits up slightly. “There was someone else in the house?”

“Not when you were there. But he had help. Moving…” Price’s gaze shifts away from Simon and lands on you.

There is no further explanation needed.

“You found that fucker, didn’t you?”

“Traffic stop of all things,” says Price. “Damn lucky.”

Simon’s voice is cold with violent intent. “I want to talk to him. Just a few minutes alone. That’s all I need.”

Price is silent for a few beats, understanding that Simon isn’t interested in talking at all. “You’ll have it.”

The confirmation siphons the tension away, leaving only a pleased sense of fulfillment. Simon has always followed Price’s orders, made sure to execute each mission with extreme precision. Rarely does he deal out vengeance or justice in the way he sees fit. But Price will allow it here, and Simon is grateful.

This is not what Simon imagined for himself in retirement. Though he felt wronged in the way that SAS forced him out, he found new purpose with 141 Ink. Even when you first appeared before him like a phantom, Simon never expected this.

“But that’s not what I came to talk to you about, Simon.”

“You came to talk about Walsh.” Price inclines his head and Simon shrugs. “What about?”

“How it’s all connected. Walsh’s intentions. What he was after.”

Simon’s hand forms a fist, some of that tension returning. He quietly counts to ten and releases the fist. “Walsh was after me.”

“Yes,” agrees Price. “But I’m talking about Archibald Williams. Why Walsh put a hit on him.”

Simon frowns. “It’s politics. Nothing more to be said.”

Price smirks, but there’s little humor in it. “Partially. Goes deeper than that. Worse than you think.”

“He’s dead, Price. What more is there to say about him?”

“It’s a family matter,” says Price.

Simon goes cold, his veins freezing over. “What about the family?” he asks, because Simon might not know much, but he knows enough. The argument Simon had with you after the pub, how he had seen you with another man thinking you weren’t interested in him, but you were only trying to protect your friend.

Price inhales and then leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, lowering his voice to a mere whisper. “Remember the man you got into it with at the pub?”

“Adam,” growls Simon.

How could he forget? The man had groped your thigh without invitation and then called you a whore after. In the moment, Simon only saw blood. If Price, Kyle, and Johnny hadn’t been there, Simon might have mauled the man.

“Archie’s brother,” adds Price.

“He’s involved?”

Price’s mouth forms a thin line. “He ordered the hit.”

“You’re lying,” says Simon, almost laughing at the idea. That man was nothing more than dirt under Simon’s shoe. A wanker. A loser. “Walsh takes orders from no one but himself.”

“Unless they’re a generous donor.”

Simon shakes his head. “Walsh doesn’t do charity.”

“It’s not charity,” says Price. “It’s a business deal.” The man sighs and sits back. “Do you know what Adam Williams does for a living? What industry he works in?”

Simon snorts. “Thinking you’re about to tell me.”

Price inclines his head. “Weapons manufacturing. Private and public sector. Government contracts across multiple nations. And…others. More discreet dealings.”

“And the war machine keeps turning,” mutters Simon.

“Always,” agrees Price. “War means profit for people like Adam Williams. Like Kit Walsh.”

“Power,” adds Simon. “Advantage.” Behind the balaclava, Simon’s jaw clenches. “So why the hit on his own brother?”

Price’s face falls, his gaze turning to you for a moment before returning to Simon. “Archie met with a few members of Parliament. They planned on meeting privately with the Defense Secretary. Have him testify at a committee hearing. He knew what his brother was up to with Walsh. Had damning evidence.”

“And Adam found out.”

“He did. Told Walsh. And Walsh took Archie out.”

“What about the evidence?” asks Simon. “Why didn’t Parliament continue with the committee?”

“They only had copies of what was exchanged between Archie and those few members of Parliament. Archie planned on bringing the rest during the meeting with the Defense Secretary.”

“So it’s lost?” asks Simon.

“Partially. As far as I’m aware, it’s being recovered as we speak.”

“Fucking hell,” sighs Simon, shaking his head.

“It gets worse, Simon. It gets personal.”

A sinking feeling develops in Simon’s stomach, weighing him down.

“There’s Adam and Walsh’s business agreement which is why Archie attempted to expose his brother in the first place.”

“I don’t need the details,” growls Simon.

“But you’ll want to listen to what I say next.” Price runs his hand over his face as if he hasn’t slept in ages. “Adam Williams is the one who set Walsh on your tail.”

“Price—”

He holds up a hand. “Not directly. He wanted Walsh to go after the wife, Evelyn. Take her out too in case she knew anything. But Walsh didn’t. Never touched her. Why is that?”

The revelation is like a punch to the face. “Me,” says Simon. “Walsh must have seen me.”

Price nods. “I think so, too. Saw you. Decided to stalk instead of kill.”

“To get revenge for what I did to him.”

Price’s expression is grim but leans in the affirmative. “When we came to seek your help about Walsh, the information I was given was because of Archie. Didn’t know it at the time. But he saved us from a massive national security threat.”

“And where is Williams?” asks Simon. “In custody?”

This time, Price smiles. “Just waiting on the judge drafting the warrants.”

Simon leans forward. “You fucking get him. You hear me? You do this for me, Price.” He glances at you asleep in your hospital bed. “And for her.”

“That I can promise.”

Now

It’s Christmas in April.

Simon has one arm draped over the back of your chair, watching with an amused expression as Johnny’s mother putters about, fussing over him.

“You’ve put on weight,” she mutters, frowning over her glasses.

“I’ve put on muscle,” corrects Johnny.

She gives him a quick once over, and then squeezes his bicep. “Could use you on the farm. It would be a huge help to your father.”

Johnny’s cheeks go pink. The woman’s been trying to get him to leave SAS for years, insisting that Soap return to run the family farm.

Simon brings his glass up to his lips, smiling around the rim. Johnny’s shoots him a look for help that Simon blatantly ignores. Shifting in his chair, Simon leans toward you, lowering his head.

“All good, love?”

You nod. “Just a little overwhelmed.”

“Need to leave?”

“No,” you reply softly, placing your hand on Simon’s thigh. “I’m excited to be here. It’s just…a lot.”

Simon presses his lips to your forehead, lingering there just so he can inhale your scent and savor your nearness.

Four months.

Four months and still, part of Simon thinks you’ll disappear, that Walsh will somehow manage to return, and drag you off again just to spite him. But Walsh is dead. Simon knows this. Not because he was told but because Price showed him the corpse. At least that version of Walsh wasn’t burnt up and unrecognizable.

And it’s Christmas. In April.

Simon planned on inviting you here in December, to meet the only family he has, but Walsh got to you first. He never had the chance. Yet this gathering isn’t Simon’s idea at all. Johnny’s mother insisted because she was so eager to meet you, to make you part of the family.

Inside, it’s set up the exact way it is when Simon comes to visit for Christmas. The tree is lit up in the corner, a real one grown and felled on MacTavish land. The dining table is packed with so much food that Simon can hardly see the dark wood beneath, and music plays from an old record player.

This is how it’s supposed to be. What Simon has always wanted with you.

Plates are filled. Conversation is had. And for a while, Simon forgets about everything, living only in the moment, reaching out to you on occasion to make sure you’re still there—that you’re real.

After, you and Simon cuddle on the sofa by the fire. Johnny’s father snores in his recliner as the muted television shows the weather. Johnny is in the kitchen with his mother, cleaning dishes and putting them away for her as she badgers him about still being single. Your eyes are closed, cheek resting on Simon’s shoulder, but you’re not asleep.

Simon whispers your name, and you snuggle closer, sighing softly before opening your eyes.

“You never answered by question,” murmurs Simon.

“What question?”

“About you staying here. Permanently. With me.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and then you’re smiling, an illumination of love that Simon wants to wrap himself up in.

“Are you proposing to me?” you giggle.

“No,” answers Simon, and it only makes you laugh harder.

“You are,” you reply, stifling your giggles by turning into his shoulder.

Simon shrugs. “Maybe.”

In a small gesture, you offer your hand, palm upward. Simon instinctually reaches for you, entwining your fingers with his. Lifting your clasped hands, Simon places kisses across your knuckles and then the back of your palm.

The two of you enjoy the silence, nestled together until you yawn. Simon offers up goodbyes, whisking you away to that little cottage on the edge of the property for the night.

“I can see myself staying here,” you murmur as Simon removes his coat and yours. “With you.”

“In England?”

“Yes.”

“In London?”

“Yes, Simon.”

He hangs the coats on the hooks by the door and takes a step toward you. “In my flat, or with Evie and Amelia?”

You pause a moment. Lick your lips. “Your flat.”

Simon’s stomach flips. His heart lurches. This time you match his forward movement, meeting him equally until the two of you are staring into each other’s eyes.

“You want to be with me? Only me? Forever?”

Your hand comes up to rest against his stomach. It slides upward over his chest only to come to a stop at his neck. With a gentle tug, Simon surrenders to you, closing the distance. The contact is electric and warm, and Simon cannot help wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against him as he takes what he desires.

“Do you remember this place?” he asks. You nod, lips puffy from his attention. Simon goes in for one more kiss. “What we did here.” Another kiss. “In that bed.” Another. “On the table.”

“Simon,” you whimper as his hands descend to grasp and squeeze.

“Do you remember?” Again, you nod. “Say it.”

“I do.”

His lips brush over yours. “I want to recreate it. To have you like that again.”

The offer is open, and all you need to do is take. Simon desperately wants you to take it.

“I’m yours, Simon.”

This time, Simon gives in to his urges, to feed that hunger, to settle in and finally make a home with the one person he cares for the most. Cradling your face in his hands, Simon shows you his passion, reveals it openly and without barriers. He wants you to see all of him, to know his desperation, his fears, and how much he craves you. You answer in kind, and that is enough for him.

A flood. A river.

Water rushing—swallowing Simon whole. Drowning.

He is cold. So...cold.

Dunked. Forced. Reaching and clawing for fresh air as his lungs fill to bursting.

Bravo whines, tapping Simon's leg with his paw, trying to capture his attention. Simon absently scratches under the dog's chin, his gaze distant and unfocused.

Around him in a circle are sketches. Charcoal on white paper.

They were meant for you—for you to browse and enjoy. Only a few months ago, Simon believed that you would eventually pick one, and from that selection, he'd design the perfect tattoo, and you'd do him the honor of inking your skin with his art.

Fuck, how things have changed. Shifted.

The stars are no longer aligned. Everything is off—and all the planets, moons, and comets are close to colliding.

Shattering. Simon is shattering.

Bravo whines again, this time with a hint of a growl in it, as if his patience is thin. That one change clicks something into place, pushing Simon toward the present moment.

"Need out of my head," mutters Simon. Leaning to the side, Simon playfully scratches at Bravo's belly until the German Shepherd collapses onto his back, tongue lolling out in contented bliss. "Up for a jog?"

Bravo is up in an instant, his claws tap tap tapping against the wood floor as he fetches his leash. Simon's gaze lingers on the sketches. A buzzing numbness begins to creep in, chilling his blood.

Two weeks since Kit Walsh walked through the door of 141 Ink. Two weeks and no letter in the post. No word. Not from him. Not from Price or Gaz or Johnny. A brief spark of shame ignites in Simon's chest. He hasn't spoken to Amelia or Evie either. They've reached out. They try all the time. Amelia even convinced Ben from Dancing Faun and a few older patrons to come check in on him.

But not bringing you back is a failure.

Simon can't face them. Can’t face fucking anyone. Can't begin to explain how all of this is entirely his fault. Kit doesn't care about you. He cares about Simon—about making him suffer.

And it's working. It's bloody fucking working.

Bravo dumps the leash in Simon's lap. A bit of drool bleeds into Simon's joggers, and he can't help but chuckle.

"Let's go," groans Simon, his bad leg acting up as he stands.

Warming up and heading out for a mile helps with the soreness in Simon's limbs but not his heart. Before heading home, Simon stops for a coffee and croissant at the bakery, giving Bravo the drier portions.

As Simon slips the key into the lock of the exterior door, he almost doesn't notice the small white envelope on the floor. Bravo steps right over it, charging upstairs to the flat as Simon releases his hold on the leash.

The buttery, flakey piece of croissant becomes ash in Simon’s mouth.

He knows that handwriting. That familiar scrawl.

And it’s Sunday. The post is never delivered on Sunday. But of course, it wouldn’t arrive in the actual fucking mail.

Walsh likes to hand deliver.

Makes it more personal. Especially when Walsh believes that someone has personally wronged him.

Simon has seen it before, back when Walsh believed Simon was on his side. Sometimes it was Simon who pulled the trigger on Walsh’s order. Not that any of those wankers were good people, but Walsh takes great joy in the one-on-one.

Simon bends at the knees, lifting the small white envelope off the ground. His greasy fingers leave behind a blemish. Bravo whines and Simon ascends the stairs, clutching the envelope tightly as if it will melt away like snow under a blazing sun.

Even as Simon enters his flat, he does not open it. He places his coffee and half-eaten croissant on the kitchen table, unlatching Bravo's leash and returning it to the holder by the front door. It isn't until Simon has the phone in his hand—the one he’s only ever used twice—while dialing the one person he knows will answer, that he flips the envelop over with shaking fingers, breaking the seal.

"Lt."

"Johnny."

Simon almost doesn't recognize himself. He sounds...broken. Rotten like forgotten food in a hoarder’s fridge. Johnny immediately notices the distress in Simon’s voice.

“What’s wrong? Did that fucker come into your shop again?"

"No," says Simon quickly, because it’s true. Walsh didn’t enter his shop. Didn’t even enter his home this time. "Not exactly."

“Simon. What’s happened?”

Slowly, Simon slides the flimsy bit of paper out of the envelope. It’s not folded. Just a once crisp piece of plain paper that Simon scrunched in his fist.

“It’s happening, Johnny. The end. I think this is it.”

“The end?” asks Soap.

Flipping it over, letters and numbers are revealed. And then words.

An address.

"Johnny,” he exhales, almost gasping as the air is ripped right out of his lungs. Simon’s thundering heart becomes silent.

"What do you need from me, Lt?"

There are words below the address. A quote, perhaps. A message.

Do this in remembrance of me.

Tears form in Simon’s eyes. "I'm not doing this alone."

"You won't be."

"You shouldn't go in alone."

Captain Price's voice crackles through the earpiece. It's a small thing, no larger than a pea pod. It sits snugly in Simon's right ear.

"I have to,” replies Simon, determined to fucking end this.

This isn't for them to decide, and it certainly isn't their responsibility. Walsh's death belongs to Simon.

He craves it. Needs it.

Lifeblood for lifeblood.

A soft static comes over the earpiece followed by Price’s voice. “We’re in position. Give the word. And we’ll enter.”

"Thank you, Captain."

Simon is dressed for dinner. It’s no suit and tie, but Walsh doesn’t really deserve the curtesy. Simon carries a pistol and a blade, but it’ll likely be confiscated. Walsh might enjoy a good game but he doesn't play fair.

What Simon did not expect, was for Walsh to bring him home. To bring him here. Of all places.

He knows this street, though it’s changed a bit over the years. He would walk home from school and stop two doors down to pet the neighbor’s dog before heading home. His mum would spend her weekends lingering out front tending her flowers. This home flourished when he was small and his little brother was nothing more but cells in his mother's womb.

It's different now. Dark.

Simon hasn't touched his childhood home in years. Not since their deaths. He couldn't bring himself to sell it, and he sure as shit couldn't bring himself to get rid of anything. He's owned it since then, and it simply exists. Empty.

But there's a light on. A small one.

The table lamp beside the window is illuminated, the one his mum liked to turn on after she put Simon and his brother to bed. The one she’d read her book by before heading to bed herself.

But that was before everything happened. Back when they were a happy family and his father was sober.

"I can come with you, Lt."

Johnny this time.

"No,” replies Simon. “It needs to be me."

It takes all of ten steps to approach the front door. Simon tries the doorknob, and finds it unlocked.

Slowly, Simon eases the door open, revealing a home that hasn’t changed. Everything is in its place, and as he steps inside, he notices the dust. Glancing down at the floor, he is greeted with the bloodstains that never came out of the carpet no matter how hard he scrubbed.

While the hall is dark, the door to his left stands open, revealing the living room. Simon can see the lit lamp and his mother’s favorite chair from where he stands in the hall. As he shifts in that direction, moving toward the light, the rest of the room comes into view.

Just inside, all the furniture has been pushed against the walls, opening up the middle of the room. There is a table, or what appears to be a table. It’s low to the ground with a bulky base that’s longer that it is wide. There are no chairs but it wouldn’t work with the table. Simon and Walsh will have to sit on the floor.

On the tabletop is a feast. An entire Sunday roast dinner. It sends Simon right back to those early days of his youth when he’d look forward to this meal. Nothing is unaccounted for. There’s the carved roast meat, roasted potatoes, an array of vegetables, Yorkshire pudding, stuffing, gravy, and all sorts of sauces. It is far fancier than anything Simon’s mum ever prepared.

It’s fresh, too. Small wafts of steam drift upward. Not only that, but the table is set for two.

“You came.”

Simon’s head snaps around, only to find Kit Walsh standing in front of the kitchen door. Simon didn’t even hear him.

“Didn’t have much of an option.”

Walsh shrugs. “True.”

“Where is she, Kit?” asks Simon.

This is Walsh’s only chance. He’ll ask nicely—politely, even. But that’s fucking it. Fuck this dinner. Fuck talking.

Walsh extends a hand, gesturing at the makeshift table. “Have a seat.”

“Kit,” growls Simon, taking a step toward the man. “Where is she?”

The corner of Walsh’s mouth twitches but his demeanor reveals nothing. He’s completely calm, and that scares Simon. Walsh is at his worse when he appears perfectly apathetic.

“Food is going cold,” replies Walsh, and the chilly blandness in his voice sends Simon over the edge. “Never known you to pass up a Sunday roast.”

The pistol is in Simon’s hand, the firing end of the barrel pressed to Walsh’s forward in a matter of seconds.

“I won’t ask again, Kit. Where is she?”

Walsh’s sigh is like that of an annoyed parent. “Sit down, Simon. Eat.”

Simon adds pressure behind his grip, pushing the barrel harder against Walsh’s skin, forcing his head backward. The man doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away either. Walsh stares Simon in face, unblinking.

“You fucking done?” he asks.

“No,” snaps Simon. His fingers curls around the trigger. “You tell me where she is, Kit. I’m not fucking around.”

“Then be done with it, mate. Put some lead in me. Make me bleed.” His smile is slightly off, like he’s begging for Simon to do it.

And Simon wants to. Badly.

“I won’t hesitate.”

“I know you won’t, Riley. You’ve always been a great shot.”

Slowly, Simon eases the gun away from Walsh’s head. It leaves behind a round mark in the middle of Walsh’s forehead.

“Have a seat,” coaxes Walsh. “Let’s talk.”

Simon is sick of talking. It’s all they ever do. Back and forth and back again until everything is twisted and torn and wrong.

“You’ll talk out of your ass the whole time,” says Simon, backing away from Walsh. The gun is still clutched in his hand, but it’s lowered.

“You can keep the gun,” sighs Walsh, heading for the nearest table setting. He takes a seat at the makeshift table, crossing his legs.

It reminds Simon of primary school. And that only makes it hurt all the more.

He wants to resist, but instead, Simon goes to the opposite end of the table, taking a seat. Playing Walsh’s game is his only chance, even if Simon doesn’t want to participate. He prefers things clean. Recon. A quick shot to the head.

But all that old violence didn’t involve someone Simon cares about. Killing Walsh now may end any chance of you returning to him.

Simon places the gun on the table next to his plate. He stares out at the feast, not wanting to take anything.

“It’s not poisoned,” says Walsh, already reaching for the food. He grabs a large slice of roast before dishing himself up one of everything else. When Simon doesn’t move to put food on his plate, Walsh chuckles. “Do I need to eat some first? Would that convince you?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Walsh shrugs. “Shame.” He cuts off a piece of the roast and dunks it in the gravy before popping it into his mouth. He points at the roast with his fork. “Missing out.”

With each bite Walsh takes, Simon continually grows uneasy. There’s no quickness in the way Walsh eats. He savors everything, complimenting the flavor, attempting to make small talk with Simon whose plate remains empty.

“I just want to know where she is, Kit. I don’t fucking care about anything else.”

Walsh shakes his head. “That’s a bloody lie. You fucking hate me.”

“Didn’t say that I didn’t.”

“You should really try this, Simon.” Walsh slowly chews a potato. “Banging meal. Missing out.”

“Fucking shut up.”

Walsh glances up, the middle of his brow curved in. “Fucking eat it, Simon. I’m not asking.” When Simon doesn’t move, Walsh sets down his silverware. “You want your woman back? Then fucking eat.”

Simon’s fists are clenched in his lap. It takes everything in him to unfold those fingers—to relax the muscles enough to move. Like a robot with a singular purpose, Simon starts filling his plate. He can smell it all. The food is fragrant and luscious. His stomach growls yet there is no meal that could fill that hole that sits in Simon’s stomach.

As Simon returns his plate to the table, Walsh returns to his own meal.

“This is our last supper,” sighs Walsh. “Sad to end it here.”

Simon stares down at his plate. Part of him wants to eat it, to remember the nostalgia of sitting at the dining table on Sunday afternoons. “One of us isn’t leaving here.”

Walsh frowns. “Suppose that’s true.”

Simon answers immediately. “It’ll be you.”

“Will it?” Walsh glances around. “This is your childhood home. Your mum died just out there.” Walsh gestures toward the entrance. “Didn’t your father bash her head in?”

He asks the question like the death of his family is polite dinner conversation.

“Don’t talk about my mum, Kit.”

Walsh tuts. “And then to off your baby brother like he did?” He pauses to chew a piece of roast. “All while you were on your first deployment? Fucking mental that one. Bet you’re glad he’s dead.”

“They’re all dead. You know that.”

Simon remembers that night like it was yesterday. He came home from his first deployment expecting to be greeted by his mum and baby brother. They weren’t there in London. Simon didn’t understand why until he made his way back to Manchester and walked through the front door.

“How’d it feel killing your father? You enjoy it?”

“Fuck off.” Simon’s voice is cold. Distant.

Taking his plate, Walsh piles on another helping of potatoes and meat. “And for Captain Price to get those charges wiped? Bloody lucky you are, Simon.” He snags another Yorkshire pudding. Adds more gravy to his plate. “I mean—he made you his fucking patsy on that,” Walsh gestures vaguely in the air, “fucking task force. Had you murdering everyone the government deemed a ‘threat.’”

“Should look at yourself, Kit.”

“Why? Because I played the same game?” Walsh shakes his head. “I took their money. I spent it. I made them happy, and then I tossed them in the fucking rubbish when I was done with them.”

“And yet, they all still have their heads. For someone who hates the government, you’ve hardly fucking touched them.”

Walsh shrugs. “Most. But not all.”

Simon’s jaw clenches. “Just tell me where she is, Kit. Tell me and let’s be fucking done with this.”

“I don’t think I’m done. And you haven’t touched your food.”

Simon scoffs. This wanker is unbelievable. “You fucking think—”

There’s a thump. It immediately silences Simon and gives Walsh pause. That can’t be the boys. Simon didn’t give them the go ahead.

A lull of silence follows.

“Kit—”

“Don’t fucking start.”

Another thump. This one rattles the table. Coming from—

Simon flattens his hands on the tabletop, starting to rise.

“Don’t fucking move, Simon.” Walsh’s voice is deathly cold. He’s bent forward, hand poised like he’s ready to draw a weapon.

“Where the fuck is she?” growls Simon.

Another thump. This one is louder. Stronger. Shaking the entire table.

Simon is up and raising his gun just as Walsh draws his. The pistol fires, the sound loud. Walsh jerks, his shoulder hitching to the side. Simon keeps his finger on the trigger, each round leaving the chamber a melody to his ears.

Charging forward, Simon lungers for the man.

In is ear, Price’s voice is a pulsing thing, calling his name. Simon is hardly paying attention. Walsh is right there. Within reach.

There is already blood. Bright. Bold. Spreading over the floor.

Simon falls to his knees, uncaring of the pain. “Where is she, Kit?” He fists the front of Kit’s shirt, lifting the man from off the ground.

"Did you not enjoy the meal?" asks Kit, his eyes glassy and distant. "Spent months on it."

A sour dread floods Simon’s stomach. He never took a bite of the food. But the roast…

“Where is she!” screams Simon, shaking him.

Walsh’s head flops about even as he laughs.

"A feast," chuckles Walsh. "Over flesh."

With a raging cry, Simon slams Walsh's head against the wood floor. There's a loud crack, and Walsh's laughter cuts off.

But Simon doesn't notice. He is elsewhere—drifting in blood hunger, wanting only vengeance.

Only wanting marrow. Only wanting dirt.

Simon grasps Walsh by the neck, smashing the back of his head against the floor again.

"You."

Smash.

"Fucking."

Walsh's skull cracks.

Opens up.

"Wanker!"

Busted brain matter mixes with the red, spreading outward.

"Simon!" It's Johnny's voice but it's not in his ear this time. It's just over his shoulder. It is present. It is loud. "Simon!"

Hands are on him. Strong ones. They tug at his shoulders, drawing him away from the gore. From the mess. Simon does not relent. Like a boulder, he collapses, pressing his forehead against the wood floor, sinking further into darkness.

You have to be here. You have to be.

A feast over flesh.

Simon turns his head to the right, staring at the large, makeshift table. It's boxy. Big. More like a storage bin rather than a table.

More like—

Simon flattens his hands, pushing up enough to half-crawl, half-drag himself toward the table. There's something odd about it, the shape. And the thudding. The fucking thudding.

"Simon. Don't—”

Simon knocks Johnny's hands away. With one wide swing of his arm, Simon knocks away the food and tableware. It crashes to the ground.

At first, Simon tries to lift the flattened top, but it doesn't budge. It's been nailed on. This isn't a commercial build. This is custom made. Not a table at all.

"Johnny,” breathes Simon. “Get a crowbar. And a hammer. In the garage."

Johnny doesn’t question. He just goes, disappearing into the house. Distantly, Simon hears the banging of doors and heavy footfalls.

Simon bends forward, examining the underside.

The tabletop is just a piece of large, finished wood nailed onto an open box. When he was standing, he couldn’t tell, but now he sees that it’s not just a box.

It’s a bloody coffin. A nice one. One you’d bury a family member in.

"Johnny!" yells Simon, his voice breaking at the end.

He appears with the crowbar, presenting it to Simon, clutching the hammer in his other hand. The two of them work together, removing nails and breaking away pieces of the wood.

Captain Price enters seconds later with Kyle on his heel. They kick away plates, discarded food, and broken pieces of wood. The rest of the team moves through the rest of the house. Simon can’t see them but he can hear them overhead, shouting from other rooms.

Simon hooks the crowbar under a corner, pulling hard. The wood groans, creaking loudly as it starts to pull away.

"Get those bloody nails up!”

Walsh’s lifeless body is ignored. Left where Simon released him.

Johnny pops out the final nail, the wood bending under Simon’s weighted leverage, lifting away from the base. All four them grab on, guiding it off and away.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Price, staring down at what’s inside.

Simon drops to his knees, hands dipping into the coffin. It's soft, black velvet on the inside. Your head is turned, resting on a small pillow. There is a sickly quality to your skin, but you otherwise appear completely unharmed.

Your eyes are closed. You appear peaceful. You appear...dead.

How long have you been in here? How long have you been trapped?

Simon's hands cradle your face. Though your skin is a bit cold, there is still plenty of warmth. There is no stiffness, just an easy loll that speaks to unconsciousness. Did you hear Simon’s voice? Did you manage enough strength to alert him of your presence?

“He has her fucking drugged.”

Price gently lifts a bag out of the coffin.

“It’s just saline,” says Gaz. “Look at the label.”

It’s marked as such—something standard in every hospital for hydration. But that doesn’t mean Walsh didn’t tamper with it.

“Saline doesn’t do this,” says Price, gesturing at your limp body.

Simon whispers your name, thumb stroking over your cheek.

Price turns into his walkie. “I need medical in here. Now.”

Simon whispers your name again. There's a twitch in your jaw. A quiver in your brow. You're not aware. Not yet. But you're alive, and as far as Simon can tell, you're whole.

But even then, it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't matter if Walsh had taken fingers and toes. If he'd taken an arm. If he'd scarred your body or blinded you. All Simon wants, all he's ever wanted these last three months, is to hold you in arms again.

Your eyelids twitch. Flutter.

As Price holds the bag, Simon slides his arms under your body, lifting you from the coffin and onto the floor beside it. Gaz kneels beside Price, examining the arm where the IV is inserted.

Simon leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, both hands on either side of your face.

Knuckles pop. Joints crack.

Simon is primed—nerves and muscles alive and firing.

Ready for action.

Ready for blood.

His old life is returning. Not as fragments but through muscle memory. The training never left. It still dwells within him, twisting around tendons and bone like vines strangling a trellis, awakening to revive the man that once was.

"Tell me what you see, Simon."

Captain Price's voice comes from behind, drifting around Simon like lingering cigarette smoke and dirty snow. Silently, Simon observes the spread of information before him.

"These are the possible targets?" asks Simon, his gaze moving from picture to picture.

A small burst of air before the balaclava becomes steam. The abandoned barn they’ve set up shop in is fucking cold even with the generator-backed heaters turned on. But the cold hardly bothers Simon. His bad knee might not like it but the ache is easy to ignore.

On the wall is a massive map of the world. There are pictures of people and places pinned in various locations. Some of the people are crossed out—marked dead. Others are untouched or painted over with a question mark.

"Yes," affirms Price. "Anything familiar?"

Simon shifts his attention away from the wall and to the table in front of him. There are more pictures here—more documents.

A muscle in his neck spasms. "No," growls Simon. "Walsh likely abandoned his old haunts."

Price shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not."

Two pictures of Walsh stare back at Simon. One is an old photograph from before. Walsh's skin is perfect here—free from burn scars or blemishes. The second photograph is newer but slightly blurry. Walsh wears a black jacket, hood up, face in profile. Even with the burn scars, his face is unmistakable.

"Walsh is prone to paranoia," says Simon, bringing the newest photograph closer. "He had places even I didn't know about."

"That's my point," replies Price. "Walsh trusted you. And yet he still didn't tell you everything."

We are gardens now.

The two of us.

It's easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.

Simon's fingers twitch with the urge to crush the photograph. Shoving the compulsion down, Simon returns the picture of Walsh to the table. Focusing on the massive board before him, Simon observes each marked location, his mind flipping through the rolodex of information he obtained during his infiltration.

"What makes you think it's one of these three?" asks Simon.

He lightly taps the picture in front of him. It's an aerial photograph of a series of warehouses near the Port of Felixstowe. There are two other ports marked including those of London and Liverpool.

Unease slides like sludge in Simon’s stomach. “Not only are these major ports, two of the three are fucking tourist attractions.” Simon turns on Price, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can tour a naval vessel and then board a cruise ship in a single day at Liverpool. London is the fucking same. Walsh isn’t making moves there.” He points at the picture of Felixstowe. “This is the only plausible of the three. Privately owned. Recent docker worker strikes.” Simon drops his arm. “But I don’t fucking believe that for a bloody second.”

There are other ports marked across Europe and the United States. Walsh likes to move around, never staying in one place too long. Sometimes he’s moving drugs. Sometimes he’s moving weapons. Using the same place of entry is risky with dangerous cargo.

"We have surveillance," replies Captain Price.

Gaz hands Soap a laptop. Johnny takes a seat and taps away at the keyboard, bringing up several video feeds.

"This one is for Felixstowe." Johnny allows the feeds to run for a bit before clicking over to a new set. "Liverpool." He switches again. "And London."

Simon shakes his head, noticing nothing in the grainy footage. "It's too close to home. Too busy. Too regulated."

Price's face remains impassive. “Look closer." He glances at Soap. "Roll them again."

Simon steps up directly next to Johnny's shoulder. Placing one hand on the table, Simon leans in. Johnny pulls up the surveillance feed near Felixstowe first. As it plays, a tiny twist of anxiety curls in his stomach. Are his eyes going to shit?

"You see it now?" asks Price.

"No," says Simon sharply.

Johnny loops the feed and points. "Here, Lt."

Squinting helps but hardly makes things any clearer. "Zoom in."

Johnny pauses the feed and enlarges it enough to give a more focused picture but not enough to render the pixels worthless. From the back of an SUV emerges a man that looks like Walsh. With him is—a woman?

Like a punch to the solar plexus, the wind is knocked out of Simon.

Is that you?

"You see it, Lt?"

"I see it," growls Simon. "Show me the next one."

Johnny repeats each surveillance feed, pausing and zooming in. There is a woman emerging from an SUV in each one, that is unmistakable, but is it you? That part is unclear. The videos aren't distinct enough to show details.

"We think this is her," says Price.

"In three different places?" asks Simon, skeptical.

Hope is a fragile thing. He wants to cling to it, to imagine that this is you he's seeing in all three feeds, but he cannot allow himself to latch onto an idea that may not hold any reality.

The middle of Price's brow creases. "You need to look again, Simon."

Simon slowly straightens himself. All of this feels like a game—Walsh's game.

"The timestamps don't make sense," growls Simon. "They're not even hours apart!"

"Exactly," says Price, stepping closer. "All of them are the same. Except one." Price lightly squeezes Johnny's shoulder. He brings up the first video feed again, the one from Felixstowe. "This one is different," murmurs Price, his gaze focused on the computer screen.

The feed plays and Johnny pauses the image. A small light flicks on in the dark recesses of Simon's mind.

"You see it now, Simon?"

"I see it, Captain."

Of the three, the woman is always alone in the Liverpool and London feeds. In Felixstowe, she isn't. In Felixstowe, there's a man grabbing her upper arm. A man that looks very much like Simon's enemy.

"We don't have confirmation," continues Price, already seeming to know exactly what Simon is thinking.

It doesn't fucking matter if they have confirmation or not. This is a lead. This is something.

"We've already sent recon teams," adds Kyle, breaking his silence.

The pity isn't there anymore. There is only grim determination. They've seen Simon at his lowest, and yet that doesn't matter. They're doing this to take Walsh down but they're also doing it for him.

Gaz glances at the map but he addresses Simon. "Walsh wants us to focus on Felixstowe." He turns attention to Simon. "Which is why we sent recon."

"And recon said different," replies Simon.

Kyle winks. "Exactly."

"Felixstowe is staged." Price moves toward the map. "But Liverpool?" Price turns back to Simon, with a smirk. "Want to know who funded that little transfer for Walsh?"

Walsh has always moved behind the scenes. He always lurks in the dark. Pockets are lined and Walsh obtains what he wants. At its core, big business is greedy. They’ll happily look the other way if they can get what they want and get away with it.

Some of the earlier unease melts, adrenaline replacing the anxiety.

Simon’s question is immediate “Did you bag the fucker?”

“I have a tail on them as we speak.”

“Good,” growls Simon. “Walsh with them?”

“No.”

Even better. It means Simon can deal out his own justice.

Simon exhales, trying to find a sense of calm amongst all this new information. "All I want is Walsh.”

I just want her back.

Simon wants that fucking wanker alive. He wants Walsh to squirm. To suffer. To feed the man his own teeth before making him choke on them.

But even that won’t satiate what Simon truly desires.

You. Only you.

In his arms again. Warm and safe and all his. To know that you will never come to harm again.

Price’s smirk becomes a genuine smile. They’ve been after this man for fucking years, and now Walsh is truly in their grasp.

Nodding toward the map, Price gestures toward it. "Our best guess is this warehouse near the Port of Liverpool."

"Why?" asks Simon. “It’s a haven for tourist.”

“It caters to tourist and occasionally houses the Royal Navy just as much as it brings in and sends out goods.” Price exhales. “It’s busy, yes. But it’s unsuspecting.”

"It's also the only place we've seen Walsh arrive to and leave from," adds Kyle.

Simon shrugs. “Could be a distraction. Make it obvious so we aren’t looking at other possible targets.”

“Could be,” replies Price casually.

“We’ve got him, Lt. And not on surveillance footage.”

"The recon team did," continues Gaz. "Real subtle, too. Like he didn't want to be seen."

Diversion has always been Walsh's specialty. His most devoted followers will do whatever he asks from shooting up a corner store to acting as a body double. The man is a manipulator. A friendly face that says exactly what you want to hear to reinforce your own confirmation bias.

He does it all in the name of power and personal superiority.

Simon turns toward Price. "Are we going after that warehouse?"

Price nods. "Tomorrow."

Darkness is a friend.

A companion. A trained beast. A silent killer.

Simon looks into his scope, checking and rechecking the perimeter of the building. Soap has already disabled the surveillance camera on the western side of the building. To the person watching, they're seeing a continuous loop of nothing.

The building itself isn’t one of those boxy metal buildings you find all over the States. This warehouse is old, made from brick and stone, built when ships were still only made of wood. Marked as a historical location, and yet currently closed to the public.

How bloody fucking convenient.

While the night is cold, the port isn’t empty. There are no cargo ships unloading but there’s a docked Destroyer all lit up across the River Mersey. Tourists and locals move along pedestrian areas, and the nearby arena is awash with light as some musical artist performs.

Life moves. Uninterrupted.

As it should be.

And not one of those souls realize what lurks in the dark.

“Soap. We ready to breach?” comes Price’s voice over comms.

Johnny’s answer is laced with slight static. “You have five minutes until the loop ends.”

Price turns back to look at Simon and Kyle, silently pointing in the direction of the door they’re entering the building through. Johnny is on the roof with two members of the recon team sent earlier.

With rifles raised, the trio move silently across the concrete. Price forms the front while Gaz and Simon take the sides and back. They stay on a swivel, watching Price’s rear as he approached the door.

“Three minutes, Captain,” comes Johnny’s voice over comms.

Behind Simon, there’s a clink of metal meeting metal. Something rattles. Then a soft creak as the service door opens.

“We’re in,” replies Price.

Price eases the door open. He keeps his gaze forward, hand coming up to signal that everything is clear. Simon enters behind Price with Kyle on his heel.

“There are three down the hall,” crackles Johnny’s voice over comms.

Price, Gaz, and Simon move silently down the tight hallway. One side is solid brick, the other treated wood. They pass breakers and switches but no doors. There are a few wall hangings but they’re for the workers who would handle the upkeep.

At a tight turn, Price presses himself against the wall. Simon and Kyle crouch as Price eases a small handheld mirror around the corner. There are only a few feet of hallway remaining before it meets a door that says “EXIT.”

“Where are they, Soap?”

A pause. “Just outside the door. Left.”

Price turns the corner and stops at the door. They form a line, switching off night vision. The door opens, and Price is moving. Simon is right behind him, blood roaring in his ears as he follows his captain.

Simon’s finger hugs the trigger.

A muted pop leaves the chamber.

Dark red bursts in the dim light, painting the wall and nearby mounted lamp. The three men never had a chance. They don’t even make a sound as the lead penetrates their heads and explodes in their skulls.

Price’s voice greets Simon in his earpiece. “Clear.”

“Two near the entrance. Follow the lights.”

The building is utterly silent. It’s all exposed brick and pipes. Distantly, Simon hears water dripping, but it is otherwise quiet like a slumbering monster.

Walsh is here. He fucking has to be. Simon senses it in his gut.

Price takes the two out near the entrance, Simon following behind with an extra bullet for each just to make sure.

“We’re coming up on your right, Captain.”

Johnny appears with one member of the recon team. The other remains on the roof, keeping an eye for any incoming vehicles.

“The bunker is through here,” says Johnny, aiming his weapon at the floor.

“The door is in the bloody floor?” asks Kyle.

Johnny crouches, his gloved hand gently probing the wood. They all watch until his hand pauses, his fingers lightly pressing downward.

There’s a hiss, and then Johnny is lifting, revealing a ladder and a dimly lit hall that Simon cannot see the end of.

Price squeezes the shoulder of the soldier from recon. “Keep a lookout here. Radio if you hear or see anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

Price releases his shoulder and descends first. Johnny heads down next followed by Simon and then Kyle.

They’re going in blind. They do not have the plans or layout of this part of the building. The strangest thing is that it looks brand fucking new. It doesn’t make any sense.

Walsh doesn’t build. He utilizes what’s available and goes from there.

There’s only just enough light to see by and there are no doors except the one at the end of the short hall. They might find a maze. They might find a singular room. There could be walking into a trap or nothing at all.

Simon isn’t sure what worries him more.

But you have to be here. Somewhere.

Price counts down starting with three fingers. At one, he raises his rifle and kicks in the door, charging forward. Heartrate spiking, Simon heads in after him, finger tight on the trigger, ready to burst skulls and shatter bone.

The adrenaline peaks, swarming Simon’s senses.

And then it comes crashing down.

As if falling from a great height, Simon is presented with an entirely different outcome.

The firing end of the rifle drifts downward, his gaze focusing on the singular object in the entire room. It’s a box. A metal tackle box like you’d take on a fishing trip. Above it is a bulb hanging from the ceiling. The light it emits is warm and low like it’s been on for years and is just about ready to give out.

Price, Johnny, and Kyle all walk the perimeter of the room.

“It’s solid fucking concrete!” shouts Johnny, his steps increasing as he drags one gloved hand along the wall.

Price slowly spins. “What the fuck is this place?”

“It’s not a storage warehouse,” says Kyle. “There’s nothing here.”

“A hideout, then?” suggests Johnny. “A bunker?”

“Then where’s the bloody bed?” replies Kyle, voice rising slightly. “There isn’t even a table!”

Simon’s focus is narrowing to a pinpoint.

The tackle box is a deep forest green, the handle black, the latch gold.

He takes a step toward it.

“Don’t touch that, Simon.”

Simon ignores Price’s command. He moves closer.

“Simon!”

“Lt! Don’t touch it!”

It’s a game. This is all Walsh’s game.

Simon comes down to one knee beside the tackle box. It’s old—a little banged up. Somehow, he recognizes it.

His gloved thumb brushes over the metal latch.

“Simon!”

It’s Johnny, but Simon is already moving—already releasing the latch and lifting the lid.

Memory resurfaces, and cold dread twists Simon’s stomach. Scratched into the interior of the lid is a name.

It’s Simon’s father’s name.

The tackle box is his father’s, a relic from a time when there was no abuse and no alcohol. Simon remembers going on fishing trips as a young boy carrying this exact box even though he was far too small to hold it properly. He’d always walk leaning to one side due to the weight.

Then it collected dust in a closet as his father became a monster.

But the box isn’t empty.

There are no fishing hooks or plastic dividers. All of that is gone.

In its place is your hair.

Not much, just a cleanly cut portion no larger than Simon’s pinky. It’s neatly tied with red string. Beneath it is a filmy scrap of paper.

The words face him. Clear and obvious.

She’s not here. Try again, friend.

“Simon.”

A crater in the Earth opens up, swallowing Simon whole. He is descending, falling through an endless hell. Spiraling down, down.

“Simon.”

Johnny’s voice is a distant thing. It’s trying to penetrate, to worm inside and pull Simon out but his mind is flipping.

She’s not here.

Your lock of hair is delicately tied, a regretful solace that rings out into Simon’s subconscious.

Try again, friend.

“Simon!”

Following his name is a rattling of gunfire. It’s not distant. Just over his shoulder. In Simon’s earpiece, someone is rattling off a series of numbers and positions, but Simon isn’t paying attention.

You are not here.

You are—elsewhere.

Lost.

In a place where Simon cannot tread.

An instant passes. Then another. The darkness around him transforms, flipping end over end until everything that Simon knows about himself slips away.

You were supposed to be here. He’s supposed to find you. To bring you back.

But this is a task that Simon clearly cannot handle.

Fingers claw up his esophagus, creep over his tongue, and press against his teeth. It emerges, breaking joints, allowing the darkness Simon feels to burst forth and wrap around him, enshrining him in a bloodlust he hasn’t felt in years.

The rifle tip rises. Simon is running on autopilot, allowing Ghost to take over, to consume every ounce of sanity.

Price, Soap, and Gaz are holding down the door, firing at an enemy that Simon cannot yet see.

His feet are not his own. His hands belong to someone else.

Charging forward, the firing end of the rifle explodes. The enemy on the other side are surprised by his sudden appearance. They faulter for a second, their eyes widening slightly in fear. But it’s enough.

It’s enough.

They are cut down, reaching out, hands pressing against the holes in their bodies as blood pools on the floor.

Simon unloads until he’s empty. Reloads. Empties again.

“Simon!”

The rest of his team follow, but Simon is hungry. A blood beast.

When the lead isn’t enough, he uses his hands.

There are bodies all around him, a trail for Price, Gaz, and Soap to follow.

On he moves, devouring. Slicing and gutting until the blood of his enemies begins to soak into his clothes.

He doesn’t remember ascending. Doesn’t remember resurfacing only to dive right back into the void. With ears ringing and a hint of metal on his tongue, Simon destroys everything in his path.

He is aware of Price, Johnny, and Kyle. They move around him, guns high, picking off everyone they can. Simon moves from enemy to enemy, uncaring of how he kills them. He breaks bones. Breaks teeth. Breaks soul. He stabs and slices, relishing in every anguished sound they make.

It is only when so many have fallen that Simon digs in, wanting to draw out a final blow as if the man before him is Walsh and not a nameless crony. The man sobs, his eyes replaced with Simon’s burrowing thumbs.

“Where is she!” screams Simon. He doesn’t even recognize his own voice. “Where the fuck is she!”

The sob becomes a garbled cry. Bloody. Crimson pools and dribbles from the man’s open mouth.

“Tell me where she is!”

Unresponsive. Dead.

Simon slams the man’s head against the floor.

But it isn’t enough. It will never be enough.

A strangled scream is ripped from Simon as he repeatedly bashes the man’s head into the floor.

Hands are on him, grabbing at his arms, tearing him away. Simon swings, clipping Johnny in the chin.

“Enough!” Price wrestles Simon to his feet, pushing him hard against the wall. “They’re dead, Simon.”

His head pounds, the balaclava moving rapidly into and out of his mouth as he gasps for air.

You’re not here.

You’re not here.

It’s all slipping away. Piercing and sharp and yet so dull that Simon begins to feel numb.

“Simon,” murmurs Price, the middle of his brow creasing.

The words lingered. Nearly burst.

You almost said them—almost confessed it all to Simon at the cliff’s edge.

I love you, Simon.

But you didn’t. You clung to them, sucked them down and pretended they didn’t exist. When you looked at Simon, and saw the possession in his gaze, you faltered. Those dark eyes of his transported you back to Riot Room, to the way he looked at you in the mirror when he had you in his lap.

You couldn’t speak them. Couldn’t make them real and whole and tangible.

As you chew on your nail in Amelia’s kitchen, you regret not saying something to Simon. The truth sits heavy in your chest. It is a rock in your stomach. Things might be different if you had said those words to him. Maybe you’d be with him now and not anxiously tapping your foot against the floor.

Amelia comes around the corner, her gaze falling to your bare feet. “Where are your socks, dear? You’ll catch cold.”

The weather is finally starting to change, becoming chillier by the day. It’s currently raining outside. The sky is gray and dreary.

“I’ll grab some,” you reply, reaching for your coffee mug. “Just started the kettle for you.”

“Thank you. That’s sweet,” smiles Amelia. “Did you eat yet?”

“Just toast with a bit of butter and jam,” you answer, yawning.

Amelia tuts. “Always start the day with a proper breakfast.” She begins opening cupboards. “I’ll take care of it.”

You’re about to ask Amelia if she’d like some help, but Lillian’s soft wail from upstairs silences your question.

Lillian is a month old now. It feels like only yesterday when you were at Evie’s bedside at the hospital. According to the pediatrician, Lillian is developing well. Healthy. That at least is a comfort. Everything else is tangled up, like bugs twisted in a sticky web.

Amelia glances over her shoulder, setting a pan on the stovetop. “How about you check on, Evie? I can handle breakfast.”

“Sure,” you nod, yawning yet again, taking your coffee cup with you.

“And put on some socks!” she calls out after you.

You lift your mug in answer, ascending the stairs quickly and entering the bedroom you’ve been sharing with Evie. She reclines in an arm chair with Lillian held to her chest. The baby suckles at her breast, all wailing gone.

Evie glances up and you instantly see the exhaustion. Having a newborn isn’t easy, but it’s so much worse without a partner. Evie might have you and Amelia to help, but who she really needs is Archie. She deserves to have her husband here with her.

When you returned from your trip with Simon, you tried not to hound Evie about what happened while you away. Spending time in Scotland helped you forget everything—to take the burden off your shoulders for a while. It was nice. Lovely. Simon helped you slip into comfort. You were safe and loved while you were with him.

Evie insisted that everything was calm while you were gone. Nothing but rest, but you know it’s a lie. She’s been pensive—a bit withdrawn since your return.

It’s troubling, and you’ve been keeping an extra eye on her. The only time you see Evie smile is when she’s looking at Lillian.

You take a sip of your coffee. “After you’re done feeding, I can watch her for a bit. Take a shower?”

Evie softly shakes her head. “I’ll be fine.”

You pop a hip. “When’s the last time you showered, Evelyn Green?”

This time she smiles, and it reminds you just how infrequently you’ve seen that side of her. She sighs with exaggeration, and that is all the answer you need. Evie’s lips part, and you hold up your hand, silencing whatever rebuttal she’s forming.

“No arguments,” you insist. “Shower. Breakfast. And I’ll take Lillian.”

Evie’s gaze softens. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her focus returning to the little bundle in her arms.

When Lillian is done feeding, you take her from Evie’s arms and head downstairs. You want Evie to take her time and enjoy the shower. Sometimes she tries to handle things alone, and she simply can’t. It’s why you’re here and not back in America.

Amelia putters about in the kitchen preparing breakfast. You sink down onto the sofa, placing your mug on the coffee table before situating Lillian into her bouncer. It’s not automated, but you’ve found using the toe of your foot to keeps it in motion while keeping your arms free.

Lillian’s eyes are open. Those beautiful blues shift around, exploring her surroundings. It takes a bit, but she eventually falls back into slumber. Leaning forward, you examine her little fists. Her fingers are curled tight and it takes forever to wiggle a single finger free.

“Need to clip your nails, little lady,” you muse.

Lillian’s response is a slow blink and a yawn before falling back asleep. You laugh softly and lightly tap the tip of her nose. She wiggles a bit, face scrunching, but she doesn’t wake.

“Now. Where are your clippers,” you ponder, glancing up.

As you search your brain for where they might be, a harsh knock comes from the front door. You turn in the direction of the sound, staring through the doorway of the living room, unsure of who might be here at such an early hour.

It’s not even ten in the morning.

“Can you get the door, dear,” calls Amelia from the kitchen.

“I have Lillian,” you reply back, still staring at the front door.

“Blast,” swears Amelia.

You hear shuffling, and then the clanking of pans just before Amelia comes around the corner. Another knock follows, this one more insistent than the last. Amelia huffs, strands of grey hair slipping from her bun as she rushes toward the door.

Returning your attention to Lillian, you move the toes of your feet against the bouncer, giving the contraption some movement to keep the infant asleep.

“What are you doing here?”

Amelia’s question comes out like a bullet. An accusation laced in metal. You’re immediately on alert.

Leaning away from Lillian, you attempt to see around the old woman. Your view is partially obstructed, and you can’t entirely make out who is on the other side of the door.

Their answer is muffled, and while you don’t catch any words, their tone of voice sounds familiar. What’s irritating though is that you can’t seem to place it.

Frowning, you stand, staying close to Lillian. There isn’t one but two people at the front door. You take a step forward and to the right in order to see over Amelia’s shoulder.

Your blood solidifies in your veins. Becomes ice. That coldness creeps outward, snagging bone and muscle until you’re rigid and unbelieving. Evie is upstairs right now and has no idea that her in-laws are at the door.

Archie’s father, Charles, wears a perfectly tailored tweed coat and black slacks. His wrinkled face is formed into a severe frown, as if seeing Amelia and being here at all is entirely distasteful. Archie’s mother, Miriam, stands next to him. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a severe bun, skin so tight from the hairstyle her expression remains neutral.

Fuck.

“The two of you should leave,” says Amelia, tone flat.

“We came to see our granddaughter, Amelia,” replies Charles just as flatly. “And it’s not your decision.”

Amelia scoffs. “It’s my bloody house. And neither of you are welcome.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You know this.”

This has nowhere to go but south.

Miriam’s eyes widen slightly but the rest of her face remains the same. The woman is so vain she’s likely had recent work done. “You would deny us, Amelia? After everything?”

After everything? As if they deserve to take one step into this house or interact with Lillian at all. You don’t want to be part of this conversation, and Lillian is right here, next to you. Oblivious and asleep. There is no way you can slip past the bickering trio to hide her upstairs.

“Fuck,” you mutter, as you attempt to sort out your next steps.

You can’t see Amelia’s face but you hear the anger in her tone. “Leave.”

Charles and Miriam stay where they are. Of course they do. They’re wealthy. They own an obscene amount of land. And they know a slew of influential people. They won’t budge. Not for anyone. They stick their noses up at everyone that don’t deem worthy of their attention.

“We drove—”

“Your driver drove,” corrects Amelia, and Charles rolls his eyes.

“Semantics,” he sighs, removing his scarf. “We came to see our granddaughter. Let us in.”

You don’t like his abrasive, pushy tone. This is the exact shit that pisses you off.

Amelia stands her ground. “You’re not allowed in this house. You know that, Charles.”

Why he isn’t allowed inside the house is beyond you, but you suspect it has to do with Evie and Lillian’s presence. If they weren’t here, Amelia might allow them entry.

Charles’ frown deepens somehow, his cheeks going bright red. “Where is Evelyn? I’d like to speak with my daughter-in-law.”

They haven’t spoken to Evie once since Archie’s death. The only contact she’s had at all from them is through their solicitor.

“She’s not here,” says Amelia.

“Absurd. Of course she is.”

You glance down at Lillian and sigh.

“It’s the friend.”

Friend drips off Miriam’s tongue like a viper. It stings your skin, and you hate that it does. This is the same woman who called Evie a leech on her wedding day. Her slimy demeanor never got under your skin but it does now.

You turn, ready to strike out, but a soft voice cuts through the tension.

“It’s okay, Amelia. Let them in.”

Evie stands on the bottom step of the stairs. Her brown hair is still damp from the shower. She wears a dark green fluffy robe. Evie appears less tired than before. Maybe the shower refreshed her.

Amelia glances between Evie and Archie’s parents before stepping aside, allowing them entrance. The movement is sluggish—almost reluctant.

Charles extends a hand and Miriam enters first. Her gaze knocks Evie, and then Amelia before turning inward, noticing you, and then—

Before the words even leave her mouth, you block Miriam’s view of Lillian. Her lips become a thin line and she clutches her purse like you’re about to snag it from her at any moment.

Charles enters in behind her, frown unchanging. He studies you a moment, and then the blocked bouncer.

“Is Lillian there?” he asks, taking a step forward.

You match his movement. “She’s sleeping.”

Amelia follows behind like a brewing storm. She gestures at the two lounge chairs across from the sofa. “The two of you sit there.”

Charles and Miriam glance around as if afraid to touch anything. You feel their distaste for the space ooze from them in a wave. They eventually sit, though they do so reluctantly. Miriam’s completely rigid.

You wait until Evie takes a seat. She selects the middle of the sofa, directly in front of Lillian. Amelia settles to Evie’s left and you end up on the right. Evie reaches out and lightly presses on the bouncer until it begins to softly rock.

“Thank you for inviting us in, Evelyn,” says Charles. He hasn’t removed his coat and neither has Miriam.

Strange. Perhaps they don’t plan on staying.

“Of course,” she replies. “I just want peace between everyone.”

Evie is always the optimist. She cares about everyone else before herself. In this, you wish she’d be a little selfish. Archie’s parents have always been awful, and being kind to them doesn’t seem worth the effort.

Removing your phone from your pocket, you send out a quick text to Archie’s solicitor. He told you no interactions, but Evie let them in, and he needs to be here or at least be aware of the situation.

Mister Grant responds almost immediately.

I’m on my way.

For a second, your fingers hesitate. Simon told you to text or call if something came up. That he would act as a buffer if necessary. But Mister Grant is already on the way, and it’s early. Simon is probably in his shop getting ready for a day full of clients. You don’t want to bother him with this. It’s not his battle.

You place the phone screen-side down on top of your thigh.

“I agree,” says Charles. He clears his throat. “It’s why we’ve come.”

Amelia snorts and Charles shoots her a look. Amelia stares right back, unafraid. “And what is your version of peace, Charles? Hm?” She looks ready to brawl.

Thank fuck for her. You’ve faced these two plenty of times but it’s better with backup.

Amelia isn’t Charles’ biological mother. His mother died suddenly, but his father, James Williams eventually remarried before divorcing that woman and marrying Amelia. Amelia and James were together for almost eight years before they separated. The fourth wife was James’ last. While Archie never cared about his grandfather’s many wives, Charles has always been vocal about his faithfulness to one woman.

Evie isn’t making eye contact with anyone except her daughter. There is a small, sad smile on your friend’s face that clenches your heart.

“A peace that has everyone’s best interest. I think we can all agree that Lillian’s health and future come first,” answers Charles.

“Indeed,” muses Amelia. “And what does this look like to the two of you?” She glances between them. “You didn’t drive all the way to my home just for a quick visit.”

Charles and Miriam share a look.

Your heart drops into your stomach. The tips of your fingers grow numb. Evie’s gaze is still on Lillian but her fingers no longer press against the bouncer. They’ve gone still.

Charles clears his throat before reaching into an inside pocket hidden within his tweed coat. Withdrawing some folded papers, he begins to smooth them out.

“What is this, Charles?” asks Amelia, worry in her voice.

“Our lawyers drafted this. All Evelyn needs to do is sign.”

Evie finally glances up. “Sign what?” Her voice sounds a little distant and shaky.

“You’re not signing anything,” you say to Evie, placing your hand on her knee.

Charles keeps his gaze on Evie. Even Miriam is looking at her intently. They both sit up straight, clearly uncomfortable.

“Wait until Mister Grant gets here,” you murmur. “He can take a look at it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” interrupts Charles. He retrieves a pen from his pocket, clicking the end. “Just sign at the bottom, and you’ll never see us again.”

“Sounds like a bloody dream,” mutters Amelia.

“So you didn’t come to see Lillian?” asks Evie.

“We did,” affirms Miriam.

Even as she says this, something doesn’t sit right with you. Ever since Archie’s death, his parents have done nothing but make Evie’s life hell. Why would they come for a ‘final visit’ before breaking off ties entirely?

“There’s a catch,” you say. “What is it?”

Charles’ gaze moves to you and his frown deepens. “All Evelyn needs to do—”

“What do you want, Charles?” snaps Amelia. “Speak plainly.”

“You’re not the child’s grandmother nor are you her mother, Amelia,” growls Charles. “Stay out of this.”

“And yet I have been more of a parent to Archie than either of you,” she retorts.

Charles’ lip curls, the papers shaking in his fist. “You were a lounge singer my father had a fancy for. And when he tired of you, he left.” He takes a deep breath. “Thankfully.”

“James would be ashamed of your behavior,” hisses Amelia.

“My father is dead and I am the head of the Williams estate,” snarls Charles. He drops the stack of papers into his lap. “And this matter only concerns us and Evelyn.”

Miriam leans forward, her gaze on the bouncer. “Lillian will be happy. All her needs will be provided for.”

Evie’s head tilts slightly. “Lillian already has what she needs.”

This conversation is spiraling. Your head is spinning. Maybe you should have contacted Simon. He’s much closer to you than Mister Grant.

Miriam sighs and you immediately want to throw them out the door. This is going nowhere except downhill. They have a fucking agenda. You know this deep in your bones.

“Lillian is our granddaughter. We want what’s best.”

“And I’m her mother,” breathes Evie. “I know what’s best for her.”

“Do you, Evelyn?” replies Charles. He smooths the papers again and holds them out. “It would be best for everyone if Lillian leaves with us.”

It would be best for everyone if Lillian leaves with us.

No. Fucking no.

You should have texted Simon. They’d cower in his presence. He’s the intimidation you need in a situation like this. But Simon is not here.

It is just you, Evie, and Amelia against two entitled assholes who can’t leave things alone.

“Lillian is not leaving with you,” you say coolly, fingers curling around your phone.

“That is for Evie to decide,” replies Charles, matching your tone.

Evie shakes her head. “Lillian is mine.”

Amelia stands, her anger on full display. “You will leave this house immediately.” Her voice is so cold. All bottled fury.

“Amelia—”

“Leave, Charles. Take your wife and piss off.”

“Amelia!” cries Miriam, also standing.

Charles pops up from his seat, his free hand out to stop his wife from moving forward. He tosses the papers onto the coffee table and then steps back to place his hand on his wife’s arm.

“I see we aren’t wanted.” Charles grabs his scarf as tears begin to form in Evie’s eyes. “Think about it, Evelyn. You know we can provide a better life for her.”

Amelia crosses her arms as Charles and Miriam see themselves out. When the door is shut, Amelia storms over, engaging the lock.

“The fucking nerve,” she says.

Evie grabs Lillian and abruptly stands, clutching the infant to her chest. “I need to lay down.” She pauses. “And pump.” Her voice cracks on the end before she takes off up the stairs.

You watch her go, your heart heavy. Amelia sighs and walks past you, entering the kitchen.

Amelia sighs and walks past you, entering the kitchen. Breakfast is likely ruined but you’re no longer hungry.

When Mister Grant arrives, he retrieves the papers Charles left and promises that he’ll look into it. He remains calm during the exchange, but even you can tell this situation rattles him. It’s not uplifting, and it only turns your stomach.

The rest of the day is a blur. You hardly feel anything. Most of your time is spent checking emails and catching up on work. Even then, it’s fuzzy. Completely separate as if you’re looking through a foggy window. The words on your computer screen mean nothing and your head hurts something fierce.

You’re aching inside. Wanting—needing comfort. You crave strong arms around you, and a comforting warmth only a specific person can provide.

But you don’t seek Simon out, though you want to. Instead, you sulk on the sofa, leaving the bedroom to Evie. She needs her space and time alone. You don’t want to shake things up after all that’s happened.

It’s not until the next day that you realize how much you miss Simon. Over a week has passed, and yesterday was hell. You need to feel his hands on your body. To hear his gruff voice in your ear. To feel that perfect stretch of him inside you.

Anything.

You’ll take anything Simon is willing to give. You just need him right now.

The hour is late, but you’re desperate. The walk to his place is short. Brief. You didn’t call ahead, but you weren’t thinking of that when you walked out the door. The only thing on your mind is getting to him.

Simon gave you a key to the exterior door that leads into the cramped hallway up to his apartment. It’s dark when you enter, and you shut it behind you softly, lingering just inside the doorway for a moment as you catch your breath.

You ascend the staircase, pausing at Simon’s apartment door. As your fist rises to knock, you hesitate, the stress of yesterday catching up to you. It hits like a wave and you feel the tears welling up unbidden.

Knocking sharply, you step back from the door.

Bravo doesn’t bark. It’s all quiet on the other end. That would be just your luck for Simon not to be home.

But then you hear heavy footfalls, and the door swings open.

Simon is maskless and his eyes widen slightly at your appearance.

“Simon,” you murmur, not recognizing your own voice. It’s cracking. Shattering.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quickly, reaching out to take you into his arms.

As his arms go out to pull you close, you drape your own around his neck. Pulling him close, you bring him in for a fierce kiss. You are demanding. Needy. Simon senses this immediately. He melts against you, the two of you tangling until one of you has to come up for air.

“I need you, Simon,” you murmur against his mouth. “I don’t want to feel anything. Just you. Only you.”

The middle of Simon’s brow furrows, his gaze traveling all over your face like he’s trying to map your pain. He sees a problem, and he wants to solve it. You’ve seen this assessing gaze before. But you don’t need Simon to solve anything. You just need him to fuck you.

The two of you can talk afterward.

“Please,” you whimper and Simon relents.

He drags you inside, slamming the door shut with one hand. He shoves you up against the wall, trapping you there, his pelvis pressing against your stomach. You cling to him, fingers digging into the back of his neck.

Simon steals your breath, devours you with kisses that bring a slickness to your core. This is how you needed to be kissed. It is melting away the ice. Warming you everywhere. You seize more of them, hungry to consume as many as you can. You are a greedy thing, and Simon willingly submits, indulging you completely.

Your fingers claw at his clothes. You want them off. You want them gone. There is nothing you long for more than to feel Simon against you, to know only his flesh and touch. Everything buzzes. Everything aches.

Simon heeds your desire. He pulls on your clothes just as you tug at his. Pieces start to fall away. Drifting to the floor. Skin is revealed, and Simon is warm beneath your hands. He is all hardness. Pure strength.

You explore his angles and ridges, fingers trailing over tattoos and scars. Simon groans with every touch, pressing harder against you, grasping your hips and waist and thighs as if the two of you have been separated for an eternity.

Your hands descend, and Simon groans loudly when you wrap your hand around him.

“This is what I want,” you murmur. You release him, grab his hand, guide it between your legs. “And I want it here.”

“Fuck, love,” growls Simon. Bending at the knees and sliding his arms under your thighs, he lifts you off the ground and presses you against the wall again. You wrap your legs around him, hooking your ankle behind his back.

Simon slides home, filling you completely with one quick thrust.

Your fingers dig into his skin, leaving half-moons behind.

Simon isn’t slow. He is just as desperate, using your body in the exact way you need him too. This is what you needed—what you desired.

Skin against skin. Exchanged kisses and breath. Dark eyes with pale eyelashes staring into your soul. The man you love claiming you.

Your lungs are full of him.

Vanilla. Black tea. A hint of smoke.

All you feel is Simon.

Two Months Later

Numbness is an affliction.

It burrows deep like a nesting animal. There it slumbers. Reproduces. Expands.

Simon is full of holes. He oozes apathy.

Life is meaningless. Directionless.

Cracking his neck, Simon rolls his shoulders and adjusts his posture. The woman in the tattoo chair, Rebecca, is leaned back, legs extended as Simon tattoos a floral piece onto her thigh. It's an intricate web of color and shading.

Four hours in and Simon is still hollow. His art was his lifeblood. Every tattoo and piercing felt special no matter how small.

This is just skin rubbed raw.

Broken bones.

Shattered teeth.

Simon switches hands, flexing his fingers to expel the tightness. Every muscle aches with weariness and it's not from being hunched over for hours. There is a deeper chasm and gnawing teeth that chew chew chew away at the folds in his brain.

Maybe he just needs to get laid. A quick, dirty, hard fuck with a stranger that won't mean shit after it's said and done. Maybe, Simon needs to just get you out of his system. To move on.

To fucking move on.

Simon dips back into the ink and thinks of nothing but the lines and the color and the shading. He hears the soft chime of the door, but Simon does not glance up. If he only remains focused, then maybe this will pass.

Footsteps approach. A bit heavy. A man’s stride.

"Be with you in a minute," says Simon, keeping his attention on the tattoo in front of him.

He ignores the footfalls, knowing that if he does, they’ll circle back and pop a seat in the waiting area.

But they do not halt. Nor do they retreat.

Closer they come until the visitor’s body casts a long shadow over Simon, obscuring the light, and fracturing all of his patience. With as much calmness as Simon can muster, he switches off the tattoo gun and places it on the rolling cart next to him.

Sighing, Simon turns, ready to tell this fucker off. "If you'd go have a seat—”

As Simon's gaze sweeps outward, the remainder of his words are snatched from his lungs. A memory stands before him. A distant reality.

This is not love or comfort. This is dark tidings.

A grease fire made worse by adding water.

Whatever numbness lurks in Simon’s bones is quickly giving way to rage—blinding, immovable rage.

Simon stands abruptly, nearly knocking over both the rolling chair and cart. Rebecca jumps, startled by the sudden movement.

“Hello, Simon,” grins Kit Walsh. “Good to see you, mate.”

Simon's vision narrows like a train tunnel. Everything about the man in the same from his crow-like features and black hair to his weight and build. It’s the burn scars on the side of his neck and lower portion of Walsh’s face that are different. Even the smug fucking smile on Walsh’s face is the same.

The instinct to immediately swing on Walsh lurches through Simon’s muscles.

"Careful," murmurs Walsh with a hint of a giggle, as if knowing Simon's impulse. "Don't want any nasty surprises."

Simon straightens his shoulders, willing the rage down down until it resembles nothing more than a controlled burning.

"I'm with a client," replies Simon slowly. "We can do this after."

"Aces," shrugs Walsh, hands in his pockets. "I'm next on the list anyway."

Walsh winks at Rebecca and struts backward toward the sofa. Bravo is on edge, ears perked up, fur standing on end as he carefully observes Walsh’s retreat.

I’m next on the list.

Simon removes his gloves. "Let's take ten," he says to Rebecca, not caring if his tone is sharp.

Tossing the gloves into the nearest rubbish bin, Simon heads for his laptop. Awakening the screen, Simon looks over his client list for the day. After Rebecca’s is a man's name. Generic. Nothing out of the ordinary. But of course, Walsh wouldn't use his actual name. And the appointment has been booked for almost four months.

What the fuck are you up to, Walsh.

As Rebecca drinks some water and taps away at her phone, Simon heads to Walsh, keeping his voice low.

“Are you—”

“The very same,” interrupts Walsh, that smug smile still cleanly in place.

"You're lucky I haven't ripped your goddamn face off," whispers Simon.

Walsh leans back against the couch. "Don't threaten me with a good time," laughs Walsh with a flirtatious bite.

With a slowness that’s almost comical, Walsh opens up the side of his coat, revealing enough explosives to demolish the entire street.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Insurance," shrugs Walsh, closing his coat. "In case the life of your sweetheart isn't enough of an incentive."

Two months and only silence.

"She's alive?"

"Course she is, mate," replies Walsh, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Why would I kill her?"

"Because you're a fucking bastard, Kit,” hisses Simon. “And I don't bloody trust you."

Walsh casually withdraws a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. As he goes to light it, Simon snatches the cigarette right out of Walsh's mouth.

"You're no fun," mutters Walsh, pocketing the lighter.

"Why are you here?"

"To talk," says Walsh. "And to get some of that award winning art on my body." He glances over Simon's shoulder. "Looks like those ten minutes are up."

Simon scowls behind the balaclava. "This isn't over."

Walsh holds up his hands placatingly as Simon steps back and returns to his current client. His focus is scattered—fractured. Each time Simon brings the tattoo gun to skin, he glances over at Walsh, making sure the man hasn't moved.

Walsh remains seated, relaxed, legs spread wide and arms stretched over the back of the couch. Bravo sits between Simon and Walsh, facing the man, licking his chops like he's just waiting for Walsh to act up.

This has to be a fucking joke. A prank.

"What do you think?" Simon asks Rebecca.

She sits up, and then slowly stands, admiring Simon’s work in the full-length mirror. "Better than I imagined. This is amazing."

Payment is exchange, and Rebecca disappears with a light skip in her step. If this were any other day, Simon might feel a bit of joy at a client’s happiness. But not when Kit Walsh is sitting just a few feet away.

"You're talented," says Walsh. "Never took you for the artsy type.”

"There's a lot you don't know about me,” mutters Simon, removing the black disposable gloves and tossing them into the nearby bin.

Walsh sucks his teeth and then stands, removing his coat, revealing the explosives. Simon sprays down the tattooing chair with sanitizer, observing the wiring. All that time with Johnny and you pick up a few things you didn’t before.

From what Simon can tell, there is no detonator in either of Walsh’s hand, but it could be anywhere. If it’s not on him, it’s likely in the hands of one of his cronies. Either they’re watching or listening in, waiting for the cue to blow the entire street.

"I'm think something large,” sighs Walsh, tossing his coat onto the sofa. “To cover up the burns. Just like you did."

Simon pauses, hand hovering for a moment before he continues cleaning the chair. “Most of my scars are blacked out. Solid ink.”

“No fancy designs?” asks Walsh, rolling up his sleeve slowly to reveal his bare arm.

Simon tosses the disposable rag into the bin and then washes his hands. “Wanting something fancy?” he asks over his shoulder, shaking his hands before drying them off. “That’ll cost extra.”

Walsh whistles lowly. “Drive a hard bargain. But you know I’m good for it.”

"Not if it's cash," replies Simon, turning on him. "I have no use for weapons or smack. And don’t even think about offering me a credit card. They’re always fucking stolen."

"Pity," sniffs Walsh. "You were always fond of a good blade."

Simon changes out the needles, opening a fresh set and placing a second on the rolling cart. “How’s that chest wound treating you, Kit?” asks Simon, glancing over at Walsh only to find a sneer. “Sorry, mate. Did I hit a spot?”

"I could give the order, you know,” murmurs Walsh. “Have her strung up. Severed. Delivered in pieces to your front door."

Some of Simon’s fire recedes. At his silence, Walsh chuckles as if he didn’t just threaten your life. “No jokes now, Riley? No death threats?”

"Tell me what you want and then get the fuck out of my shop."

Walsh grins, leaning in. "I want a tattoo."

"Fuck. You."

Walsh leans away, resting the back of his head against the chair, settling in like he’s just another customer. “And to talk.”

Simon doesn’t reply. He continues to set up his cart with everything he needs.

Walsh twiddles his thumbs before breaking the silence. “Missed you.”

“Piss off,” mutters Simon, grabbing two black disposable gloves.

Picking up a purple marker, Simon rolls over to the tattoo chair, observing Walsh's bare arm. It's riddled with burn scars. Though healed, it's clear he never underwent surgery to correct some of it. Simon remembers those surgeries, remembers the skin grafts. Walsh's skin is all puckered and raw but healed. It'll be hell on the needles as much as it'll be on Walsh's skin.

With more gentleness than Walsh deserves, Simon makes two marks with the marker. A start point, and an end.

"Blacking it out?" asks Walsh.

"You don't get anything extra just because you booked under a false name,” retorts Simon. “And with your scars it’ll hurt more. Take a bit more time.”

Walsh’s gaze is assessing, moving over Simon’s upper body. “Will it be like yours?”

“Yes,” answers Simon.

Walsh sighs contentedly. "It'll be just like the old days."

Simon grinds his teeth, swallowing back every nasty thing he wants to say. He clicks on the gun and the familiar buzz fills the air. Dipping the point into the ink, Simon brings it to Walsh's skin. Just before it makes contact, Simon pauses, some of that rising rage returning.

Part of him wants to jam the thing into Walsh’s eye, but Simon has to think of you.

Of your safety.

Simon takes a deep breath, and draws from memory, picturing your face. It comes in pieces. Fractures. There are blank details. He's already forgetting what you look like—and that in and of itself is a crime.

Clenching his jaw, Simon makes contact. A vein in Walsh's neck pulses but he makes no comment about the sting. Depending on the burn scars, tattooing can be difficult but possible. Sometimes they don’t absorb the ink well and multiple sessions are needed. But it’s not like Walsh is ever coming back after day.

After a few minutes of silence, Simon takes the bait. "You came here to talk." He dips the tip back in the ink. "So fucking talk."

Walsh snorts. "Why jump all in? We have hours."

“I’m not one for small talk,” mutters Simon.

“No,” muses Walsh. “You never were.” Walsh turns his head in Simon’s direction. “That’s what I liked about you. Always to the point. Blunt. No one else spoke to me the way you did."

"And why do you think that is?" counters Simon.

Walsh grins. “We're the same. You and I. It's why we got along so well."

We are gardens now. The two of us.

"You're delusional.”

"No,” says Walsh with utter confidence. “I know you. Always have."

Simon’s jaw aches from clenching it. He retrieves more ink, and this time, uses more force than necessary. The rage is building again, becoming thick and potent like molasses.

"We're not the same,” growls Simon.

He’s changing. Fracturing. Shifting.

Walsh laughs, and rubs at his chin with his other hand. "We both care about our country."

"You don't care about anyone but yourself!" Simon turns off the tattoo gun and places it on the cart. "We're fucking done. Get out."

"We're only talking,” says Walsh casually.

His words are fucking sour to Simon. Dead.

Simon leans in. "That's what you always say." The rage becomes cold. Icy. “The first time we met, you had no idea that we had crossed paths before.”

Walsh’s charm fades slightly.

Simon forges ahead, not giving him a chance to speak. “You don’t remember. But I do. I remember every little detail about that night.”

Crossing his arms, Simon rests them on the edge of the tattooing chair, never taking his gaze off the man he’s been hunting for years.

“I tracked you to a little pub in Manchester. For surveillance. You rented out the room upstairs. Stood up on a makeshift stage and addressed a room full of men.” Simon licks his lips, the fabric of the balaclava scratching his tongue. “I knew you were shit then, but I didn’t know just how fucking awful you were until you opened your mouth.”

Walsh’s shell is cracking. Piece by piece.

“You had the biggest smile on your face. Proud of the words coming out of your mouth.” Simon leans in even closer, lowering his voice until it drips with disdain. “The shit you said that night. That red pill bullshit about women. About the queer community. About anyone who didn't fit your idea of superiority.”

That coldness solidifies. Becomes steel.

“I saw how those weak, pathetic men ate up every word. And I’ll wager you don’t remember any of their names. Faces, maybe. But not names.”

“What’s your bloody point?” growls Walsh, all that cheerfulness now gone.

“I remember them,” says Simon. “I remember because your words fueled them. Sent them out into the world only craving violence. They stabbed. Drove cars into crowds.” Simon leans back, but keeps his hands on the chair. “And then you fucked off to America. Said the same shit there because their gun laws are looser.”

“Simon—”

“And you had a fucking blast there, didn’t you?”

“Simon,” warns Walsh.

“A fucking blast!” Simon slams his hand against the leather and Walsh flinches. Fucking flinches. It’s all the fuel Simon needs.

“You feed them your bullshit.  You shat out your manifesto and they worshipped you like God. And then they picked up their guns and walked into shopping malls, and churches, and schools. Fucking schools, Kit.”

The rage is boiling. Every part of Simon is on fire. Screaming.

“And while those same wankers quoted you while in custody, you were across the other side of the world trading drugs for guns. Helping fuel civil wars and moving warheads because you sweettalked some politicians too drenched in cash to care about the consequences.”

A laugh catches in Simon’s throat.

“You’re a terror,” whispers Simon. “The worst kind because you don’t even fucking believe any of it. Do you?”

Walsh is no longer smiling, and for a brief flicker, Simon thinks Walsh might set off those explosives. But no—Walsh likes the long game. If he wants to talk, Simon will fucking talk.

Simon chuckles, and it almost sounds manic. “I was ready to follow you home that night. To crawl in through your window and fucking suffocate you.” He sighs heavily. “I should have. Instead of listening to my orders.”

“How romantic,” sneers Walsh.

“And then after all that chatter in that pub—”

“The pub, Simon? Really? You were just taking the piss about the schools. Now you want to go off about the pub? Tell me how you really feel?”

“We’re only talking,” says Simon, repeating Walsh’s words right back at him.

Walsh shakes his head. “I didn’t pull the trigger.”

“No. You didn’t,” agrees Simon. “But you were the scope. You showed those weak men where to point.”

Walsh’s face is bright red. Simon’s only seen him like this once before. The rain fell that night but a fire raged.

“After your grandstanding you went downstairs with the rest of your lads. You never noticed me. But I noticed you, Walsh. Saw you corner a woman. Saw the fear in her eyes as you didn’t take no for an answer. And when she left and a few of your new friends followed her, I made sure she was the only one who got home safe.”

"Did you kill them?"

"I did,” affirms Simon. “And I enjoyed it."

Walsh sneers. "You're just like me. You follow your impulses.”

"You're pathetic, Kit. A shit stain." Simon gestures at Walsh's arm. "And this is all you're getting from me. Now, get out."

"I could take us out right now.”

"Please. You’d do the world a fucking favor.”

"Finish the tattoo, Riley."

"Choke on my dick, Kit."

Simon shoves away from the tattooing chair, intended to put some distance between them. But just as the wheels on Simon’s stool begin to move, Walsh reaches out, snagging Simon’s forearm in a vice grip. The reflex comes immediately.

The back of Simon’s hand across Walsh’s face is a deafening crack. Walsh’s head snaps to the side. Dark red bursts outward in an arc.

They both hang in the silence. Simon, with his arms still slightly outstretched. Walsh, hanging limply to the side, bloody drool dripping off his face.

This is it. Simon fucked up. Either it’s your body in pieces or this entire street is flattened.

Slowly, Walsh pushes his hair of his eyes, revealing his red-drenched face. His tongue runs over his teeth, and spits. A glob of blood hits the floor followed by a tooth.

Walsh sits up, grinning. Dark red against off-white.

“There he is,” laughs Walsh. “There’s the Simon I know.” He doesn’t wipe away the blood. “And don’t apologize. Knew the blow was coming.” Seemingly unfazed, Walsh hops off the tattooing chair, strolling over to the sofa. Picking up his coat, Walsh shrugs it on. “Thanks for the shit tattoo, Riley.”

Walsh lightly tugs on the coat, smoothing the fabric.

Just like any other customer, Walsh is leaving. Services rendered.

“Oh! Almost forgot.” Walsh turns on his heel. “Keep an eye on the post.” He takes a step back and places his hand on the door. Pushing it open, Walsh pauses just before he’s swallowed up by the chill of early March.