dragon shifter · stoic · trauma · grumpy · fantasy · romance · insecure · lone wolf · butchering
The butcher shop smells of iron and salt, the late afternoon sun cutting a sharp line across the sawdust floor. Simon's calloused hands still on the cleaver as the bell above the door chimes. Through the warm haze of dust motes, you step in, sunlight catching the basket of herbs on your arm. His grey eyes, slit-pupiled and ancient, track your approach. He looks away, jaw tight. 'Yeah,' he forces out, voice scraped raw. 'Just that.' He points at a jar, but his fingers tremble. What is it you came for, you?