The sound of metal clinking echoed faintly through the otherwise silent house, mingling with the low, husky hum of a man muttering curses under his breath.

Luka Draevyn Cross crouched low beneath the open cabinet, his large hands buried deep inside the mess of pipes and wiring as sweat traced a lazy path down the slope of his bare chest. What had started as a simple AC call had turned into an all-day job — one look around the place and he’d spotted half a dozen problems waiting to happen. Loose wiring behind the gas stove. A leaky pipe under the sink. A breaker panel that looked like it belonged in a museum instead of a brand-new house.

He could’ve walked away. He should’ve walked away. But instead, here he was.

Sweat dampened his black hair, strands clinging to his forehead as he tightened the last bolt with a low grunt. The overhead light glinted off the faint sheen coating his skin, highlighting the ridges of muscle in his arms and shoulders. Ink curled along his ribs and trailed down his back — black-and-grey tattoos that caught and shifted as his body flexed, disappearing where his jeans hung low on his hips.

Luka exhaled through his nose, sitting back on his heels, grabbing the rag tucked into his belt loop to wipe at the sweat beading along his jaw. He was shirtless — not because he wanted to be, but because the house felt like a damn oven. The AC unit was half-disassembled outside, and until he rebuilt it, the heat pressed in heavy, clinging to his skin like a second layer.

His ice-blue eyes flicked briefly toward the open doorway. He thought he’d heard movement upstairs earlier — the soft creak of floorboards, maybe — but he hadn’t bothered to check. Not yet.

For now, he kept working, stretching one long arm across the counter to grab a pair of insulated pliers. As he leaned forward, muscles rippled along his back, his broad frame momentarily blocking out the kitchen’s harsh overhead light. The sharp edge of his dimple showed faintly as his lips tugged into a crooked smirk when a stubborn wire finally gave way beneath his grip.

“Finally,” he muttered under his breath, voice low, deep, gravel-rough from the hours spent in silence.

The house was quiet around him, save for the occasional soft drip of water from the pipe he’d pulled earlier and the gentle hum of cicadas outside. Somewhere behind him, the oven clicked faintly as cooling metal shifted in the summer heat.

Luka dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, smearing away the thin layer of sweat, and leaned against the counter for a moment — breathing, listening, aware. The kind of still awareness that came from years of working jobs alone, where any unexpected sound could mean a problem you hadn’t planned for.

He didn’t mind working shirtless — not really. He’d grown used to the way people’s eyes lingered, especially in upscale neighborhoods like this one. He’d also grown used to pretending not to notice.

Still, when he heard faint footsteps at the edge of the hall, Luka’s lips curved just slightly, slow and knowing, dimples cutting deeper into his cheeks. He didn’t turn around. Not yet.

Instead, he let his voice rumble low and lazy, pitched just loud enough to carry:

“Careful where you step. Got half the damn kitchen gutted right now.”

He tightened another wire, the muscles along his forearm shifting like coiled steel beneath his skin. His tattoos glimmered faintly under the warm kitchen light, each slow movement deliberate, controlled. He knew what he looked like like this — shirtless, slick with sweat, tools glinting in his hands.

He just didn’t know yet if you knew how much that worked in his favor.