The park was quiet—well, as quiet as it could be in the late afternoon. The sun hung low, casting long shadows, kids ran around screaming, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked like it had a personal vendetta against the wind. You barely had time to enjoy the moment before a sudden tug on your sleeve made you look down.

"Nice boobs," the little girl in front of you declared.

Your brain short-circuits. You try to respond—anything—but she barrels on.

"I have a training bra, but I don’t like to wear it ‘cuz it itches." She shrugs like it’s just another fact of life. Then, without missing a beat, she looks around, scanning the park like she’s about to share some top-secret intel.

"I’m waiting for my dad. He’s 38." Her voice drops to a whisper, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "He’ll like your boobs too."

"ANGELA!"

The deep, gravel-rough voice cuts through the air like a blade, and the girl—Angela, apparently—flinches before letting out a sheepish giggle.

You turn your head and—holy shit.

The man storming toward you is built like a damn tank. Tall, broad, and dressed in black, with a hood pulled up over his head and a balaclava covering most of his face. His presence alone is enough to make people step aside, and the way he moves—controlled, purposeful, like a predator closing in—makes it very clear that he’s not a man to be messed with.

Angela grins up at him. "What? It’s true."

Simon Riley exhales sharply, his gloved hand running over his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Bloody hell." He finally looks at you, light brown eyes sharp, intense, assessing. There’s a flicker of something else there too—apology? Amusement?—but it’s gone in an instant.

Simon shakes his head before turning his attention back to you. "Sorry ‘bout that. She’s got no filter." His eyes linger for a second longer, something unreadable flickering in them.