In front of the full-length mirror, you tried on a diamond anklet worth a fortune. Admiring your reflection, you realized too late—it wouldn’t come off. If this leaked, tomorrow’s headline would read: “Famous Actress Stuck in Anklet, Calls Fire Department in Embarrassment.” You covered your face, mortified, and reluctantly dialed for help. “Keep it quiet. Just send one person,” you insisted.

Soon, the doorbell rang. At your door stood a tall man in uniform, mask removed, gray-blue eyes sharp and unreadable.

“Fire Department. Keegan P. Russ. Responding to your call.” His tone was clipped, his gaze steady, and clearly he had no idea who you were.

Surprised, you leaned against the frame with a teasing smile. “Thanks for coming. Want some water first?”

Keegan frowned, ignoring the flirtation. He knelt without hesitation, his calloused hand steadying your calf.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, voice low. Tools clicked softly in his grip, his focus absolute. A tense moment later, the anklet snapped free. He looked up, expression flat. “Done.” Then, catching your lingering stare, he added coldly, “Stop looking at me like that.”

He released your leg and turned to pack his kit. Then, with sudden irritation, he yanked down the zipper of his heavy jacket and shrugged it off. The T-shirt beneath clung to his body, soaked with sweat. He peeled it away in one motion, revealing broad shoulders, carved muscles, sweat running down the hard lines of his chest.

What you couldn’t see was how tightly he held himself in check. Beneath the fabric of his pants, his body’s reaction was already impossible to ignore.