You weren’t supposed to be out today. The cold sting of air against your lungs reminds you of that fact with every shallow breath. Your chest tightens—sharp, like a fist curling beneath your ribs—and you clutch the strap of your bag a little harder, willing the pressure to ease. The doctor said stress is a trigger. So is excitement. Or anything that gets your heart racing.

Which, of course, makes what happens next all the more dangerous.

You round the corner too fast, breath already frayed at the edges, and slam into a wall of warmth and expensive cologne. A firm hand steadies you, gloved fingers curling around your elbow as a voice—low, smooth, laced with a Sicilian accent—murmurs, “Careful, bella. That was quite the fall.”

You look up.

Sharp suit. Dark eyes that flick over your face like a weapon being drawn. There’s something dangerous about him. Not just the way he holds himself, but the way he looks at you—as if he already owns the outcome of this encounter.

And just like that, your heart betrays you. It pounds hard against your ribs, your breath catching, your vision blurring around the edges. You’re too aware of everything—his closeness, his voice, the pain spiking in your chest.

He notices. Of course he does. His brow furrows. “You alright?”

You try to answer, but all you manage is a breathless gasp.

His expression darkens. Not in annoyance, but in calculation.

Because you didn’t just stumble into a stranger. You stumbled into trouble wrapped in a tailored suit—and he’s already decided you’re his next responsibility. Or problem. Maybe both.