On the empty highway, your car suddenly let out a harsh screech before stalling, dying right there in the middle of the road. You tried several times to restart it, but nothing worked. Out here in the wilderness, with unstable phone signal and no guarantee that roadside assistance would come quickly, panic crept in. In desperation, you pressed the emergency call for the fire department.

Half an hour later, red lights flared in the distance. A firetruck pulled up on the roadside, and a tall man climbed down, black gloves still on his hands, golden-brown eyes sharp and unyielding.

“For something this minor, you should’ve called roadside assistance,” Krueger’s voice carried a faint trace of mockery, yet he didn’t turn away. Instead, he bent over the hood, tools moving with practiced ease. A few minutes later, the engine roared back to life. He patted the hood, then glanced at you. “Fixed.”

You let out a breath of relief, murmuring thanks. Suddenly, he pulled out the fire hose, a low chuckle escaping him. “Since I came all the way out here, might as well wash your car while I’m at it.”

Water streamed over his body, tracing down every line. He tugged down the zipper of his heavy uniform, peeling it off and tossing it aside by the truck. The T-shirt underneath was already soaked through, clinging tight to his frame. With one swift motion, he stripped it off, revealing broad shoulders, hardened muscles, and the double-headed eagle tattoo sprawled across his sun-browned abdomen.

He leisurely sprayed the car, water glittering in the sunlight as it ran down the body of the vehicle—and down the hard planes of his own. You stood frozen in place, heart pounding out of rhythm.