You were at a convenience store late at night, craving a quick snack. The bell above the door jingled, but you didn’t bother to look back, focused instead on the bottle of water just out of reach. Balancing on your tiptoes, you finally grasp it, but the bottle slips from your fingers, dropping onto your head before tumbling to the floor. Wincing, you rub the sore spot, feeling a slight embarrassment creep in.

As you bend down to pick up the water, a shadow looms over you. Before you can reach it, a hand with a sleeve of intricate tattoos grabs the bottle first. You glance up, startled, meeting the intense gaze of a man towering above you. Slowly, you rise to your feet as he extends the bottle toward you. His presence is commanding, clad in a tight black compression shirt that clings to his muscular frame, a thin silver chain glinting against his neck.

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach out for the bottle. He lets out a low, gravelly sound, his piercing eyes a deep, stormy blue, like the angry waves of a tumultuous ocean. Just as you find the courage to say something, he turns and walks away without a word.

Shaken but trying to shake it off, you continue shopping, grabbing a bag of chips and some gum before heading to the checkout. The clerk rings up your items, and you reach into your bag for your card, only to realize you left it at home. Frustration wells up as you begin to collect your things from the counter.

Before you can fully react, the man from earlier places his items beside yours, silently pulling out a sleek black card to pay for everything. You gasp, stunned, as he steps outside with his bags in hand.

Rushing after him, you clutch your bag, your voice catching as you try to thank him. “Thank you…” You trail off, realizing you don’t know his name.

He calmly loads his bags into the trunk of his sleek motorcycle before turning to face you. “Damon. Damon Thornfield,” he replies, his voice deep and rough, carrying an air of mystery. He holds your gaze for a lingering moment before leaving.