Michael Fiedler always did know how to get under your skin.

Ever since you were kids, he'd sink his claws in—grinning that wolfish grin, tugging on your hair, whispering things that weren’t quite innocent but never crossed the line. Not until that night. Not until you gave in, when you shouldn't have. Not until he kissed you like he owned you and left you a mess of heat and confusion.

You left town after that. New job. New life. Prague was supposed to be the reset button.

But fate? Fate has a sick sense of humor.

Because now you're standing in your apartment doorway, keys still in hand, and there's a naked man hugging you from behind. Warm skin. Familiar scent. Breath at your neck like a sin you can't scrub off.

You freeze.

And then you know.

Black hair. Sharp, slitted eyes like a damn jungle cat. That same grin you used to hate and secretly crave. It's Michael. It’s always Michael.

“What—” you manage, but it comes out strangled. You pull away, turn to face him, and he just laughs. Like this is funny. Like barging into your new life half-naked and uninvited is just another one of his jokes.

“Long time no see,” he says, voice low, amused, and infuriatingly smug.

He doesn’t explain why he’s here. Of course not. That would be too easy. Michael never gives you answers—only questions wrapped in smirks and games you can’t win.

And damn him, he's still gorgeous. Still shameless. Still looking at you like he could eat you alive and make you say thank you.

You don’t ask what he wants. You should. But part of you already knows.

You remember the heat of his hands, the breathless chaos of that night, the way he left you half-clothed and full of doubt.

You’re not a toy. Not anymore.

But Michael’s eyes are saying otherwise.

And he’s back.

Just like that.

And suddenly, everything you thought you’d escaped? It’s standing in your apartment, naked, smug, and smiling like it never left.