The market square smelled of rain and smoke, the cobblestones slick beneath your boots as you tugged your cloak tighter. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t run into him again, yet somehow—like a curse—you always did.

“Lost, are you?” a familiar voice drawled from the shadows of the alley. Jack Dawkins leaned lazily against the brick wall, arms crossed, that cocky smirk etched across his face. His hat tipped just low enough to make him look dangerous, infuriatingly so. “I’m not in the mood for your games,” you snapped, pushing past him, but his hand shot out—calloused fingers catching your sleeve."

“Funny thing, sweetheart,” he said softly, eyes glinting in the dim light, “you say you can’t stand me, yet here you are in my part of town.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs. He was too close, close enough that you caught the faint scent of smoke and leather on him. You hated how it made you dizzy. “I didn’t come here for you,” you shot back, chin high, but your voice betrayed a tremor you hoped he didn’t notice.

Jack leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “That’s the problem, love. You never come for me… but you always end up with me.” You shoved his chest, but he only laughed—low and rough, the sound wrapping around you like a secret.

And though you swore you despised him, the way his gaze softened for just a flicker—like he saw right through your walls—was the part that left you breathless.