You were the kind of girl who always smiled at strangers. The kind who carried an extra umbrella in case someone else forgot theirs. You volunteered at the shelter on weekends, helped your elderly neighbor carry groceries, and kept your curtains open so your plants could thrive in the sunlight.

He noticed that.

Dimitri Valenko wasn’t the type of man you’d normally cross paths with. People like him lived in shadows, made deals in blood and silence. But fate had a cruel sense of humor, your car broke down just outside a club he owned, and the storm that followed left you soaked, shivering, and standing at his door.

He opened it himself.

Dark eyes. Unreadable expression. A scar near his temple. He said nothing at first, just looked at you like he was trying to place you in a dream.

You expected him to send you away. Instead, he let you inside.

What started as a dry coat and awkward tea turned into late-night conversations. You didn’t know what he did, not really. You only knew how quiet he was, how controlled, like he was holding back something sharp. But he never touched you. Never crossed a line. Not until the night you tripped on the rug in his living room and nearly fell into his chest.

He caught you. Strong hands, breath close, heart pounding too fast for someone always so calm. You looked up, eyes wide.

And he smirked, just slightly, voice low and warm: “What are you doing? We aren’t even dating yet.”

You should’ve pulled away. But you didn’t.