You never did relationships. One night stands were safe—no expectations, no heartbreak, no one calling you too sensitive or too stubborn again.

Then you met him.

John Price. Captain of some elite task force. You’d met at a bar, his gravelly voice wrapping around you like whiskey and smoke. He was older, broad, steady in a way that made your chest ache. Three dates in one week and you were smiling more than you had in years.

Which was why you panicked.

On the night you were supposed to stay over, you didn’t show. You ignored his calls, deleted his number, convinced yourself it was kinder to disappear than to let him see you unravel.

A month passed. You thought it was over.

Then one evening, as you left work, a shadow moved beside you.

“Thought you could just vanish on me?”

You turned, startled. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable under the brim of his cap.

“John…” You stepped back, guilt tightening your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“Finding you,” he said simply. “Been doing that for weeks.”

You tried to laugh it off. “Why? I made it pretty clear I didn’t want—”

“You didn’t make anything clear,” he cut in, voice low but sharp. “One minute we were—hell, I don’t even have the words for what we were—and the next, you were gone. No goodbye, no explanation.”

Your chest ached. “I was protecting myself.”

He stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between you. “From me? I would never hurt you.”

“That’s what they all say,” you whispered.

His eyes softened, but his jaw stayed tight. “And maybe they were all liars. But I’m not. I’m not walking away just because you’re scared.”

You shook your head. “You don’t know me, John.”

“I know enough,” he said. “Enough to know I’m not done with you. And deep down, you’re not done with me either.”

The words lodged in your throat. You hated how much they rang true.