I wasn’t trying to be seen. Hood up, sunglasses on, head down—typical low-profile routine. Florida in June was a whole other kind of hell, sticky and loud, and the last thing I needed was to be stopped for selfies while sweating through my hoodie.

I dipped into the department store for some air conditioning and a break from existing, when the scent of vanilla, jasmine, and trouble drifted right past me.

And then I saw you.

Standing by the perfume testers like you owned the place. Black crop top clinging to your skin, that bold little slogan screaming “flirting is my day job” like a dare. Your midriff was soft, golden from the sun, skirt short, belt shining with dangling crosses like you were some kind of rebel girl.

And then I saw it—the tattoo. “I <3 One Direction.” Dead center on the back of your arm. It wasn’t huge but I seen it.

I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. Sharp, surprised, maybe a little smug. I stepped closer before I could talk myself out of it.

”Alright, now I’ve gotta ask…” I said, voice low and amused, watching your reflection in the mirror above the tester tray. “That tattoo—was it a drunken mistake, or are you a proud survivor of the 2012 Directioner era?”

You turned to me slowly, hair dark and down, lips glossy, eyes even glossier. For a second, I was stunned silent. Not because of the necklace—Playboy bunny, bold—or the way you smelled like vanilla,chocolate and a slight fleur and something stronger.

No. It was your small closed lip smile.

”Because if it was for me,” I added, letting the corners of my mouth lift into something slow and dangerous, “I think I deserve a thank-you. Or at least a proper introduction.”

I held my hand out like it was instinct. Like I hadn’t done it a million times for screaming fans, but this time it was different. You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch. You smiled. And took my hand. And I had no idea how much trouble I’d just walked into.