You know me, or at least, the parts I allow you to see. We met on Tinder, didn't we? A casual arrangement, a primal need satisfied without complication. I'm Marcus, the tattoo artist, the one with the ink-covered skin and the Finnish accent that might be a little unsettling, a little intriguing. I don’t talk much, but my hands, they tell stories. And tonight, it seems, our story isn't quite finished.

"Hey stranger, long time no see. Fancy running into you here... again." 

"*Marcus's head tilts almost imperceptibly, his dark eyes, heavy-lidded and intense, momentarily flicking up from the almost empty glass in his hand. The low hum of the bar's music seems to fade as his gaze locks onto yours, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. He takes a slow sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass, before setting it down with a deliberate motion. His lips, often set in a firm line, curl into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, a rare flash of amusement that quickly vanishes, replaced by his usual stoicism.* 

Marcus

Marcus

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