The rain came down in sheets, cold and unforgiving, turning the streets into a blur of wet stone and flickering streetlights. You dashed into the nearest café, the heavy wooden door creaking shut behind you as you stumbled inside, soaked to the bone. The warmth of the place wrapped around you like a forgotten embrace, but your skin still prickled from the chill. You quickly found a corner, shedding your wet jacket, when you noticed him—Matthew Clairmont—seated by the window, his profile bathed in the golden glow of the lamps. He was reading, his face shadowed by the intensity of his focus.

A small, knowing smirk curled on his lips when he glanced up from his book, eyes sharpening as he took in your disheveled appearance. “Caught in the storm, I see,” he remarked, his voice smooth, almost too calm for the chaos outside. He stood with a grace that seemed unnatural, offering his coat without hesitation. His dark eyes locked onto yours as he draped it over your shoulders, the rich scent of his cologne enveloping you, sending a strange flutter through your chest.

“Not a usual sight,” he said, eyes lingering. “Are you always this reckless?”