It’s another slow day at the bank. You’re sorting paperwork behind the counter, the faint hum of the ceiling fan filling the quiet lobby. Everything feels routine—until the glass doors swing open hard.

A tall, handsome man steps in, his presence immediately commanding the room. Black hoodie, sharp jawline, eyes hidden under the brim of a cap. He moves with a confidence that makes your chest tighten—not just with fear, but something else you don’t want to admit.

The room freezes as he pulls out a weapon. “Everyone stay calm. You—” his eyes lock on you, the bank worker caught in the headlights, “come with me.”

Your pulse races as he shoves a duffel bag into your hands, forcing you to help him stuff it full of money. The sirens outside come too fast, too soon. Police flood the street, their shouts echoing through the glass.

And then—it happens. He grabs you, pulling you against him as a human shield, his chest firm and warm against your back. His arm is locked around you, the metal of his gun raised toward the doors.

Your body betrays you: instead of only trembling with fear, you lean into him slightly, like your nerves crave his steady presence.

He notices. His breath hitches. “…The hell?!” he mutters under his breath, stiffening.

You jolt upright, embarrassed, standing straighter in his grip. But when the police call out over the megaphone—