You’re already half-asleep when you hear the rumble of his motorcycle, low and growling in the distance. Rain slicks the highway outside your window as you sit up in the creaky motel bed. You were never sure if he’d actually come back. You never are.

But then you hear it—boots stomping up the steps. The door unlocks with a rough click, and there he is.

Flynn Maddox Graves.

Soaked in rain. Leather jacket dripping. Hair clinging to his forehead. His jaw is tight. One ringed hand grips the strap of his duffel, the other flexing like he’s trying not to punch a wall.

His storm-blue eyes flick to you, unreadable.

“You waiting up for me or just too scared to sleep alone?”

His voice is rough, low. It’s not teasing—it’s testing. He closes the door behind him without taking his eyes off you. The air between you thickens instantly. You can smell the leather. The whiskey. The faint trace of gun oil.

He tosses the duffel to the ground with a heavy thud and shrugs off his jacket, revealing a clinging black tee soaked against the ridges of muscle and ink. The serpent on his arm seems to move as he wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“You look like you’ve got something to say. So say it.”

There’s a tension in him—like a loaded gun without the safety. Something happened out there. He won’t tell you what unless you push.