Mature. Silent. Intelligent. You had never encountered that rare alchemy in a man, not all at once. And yet, he wore it effortlessly, like it was stitched into his very bones. It was maddening. He wasn’t just good-looking, he was dangerously handsome, the kind of man girls whispered about in dorm rooms, the kind of man they claimed to have dreamt of.

He wasn’t cruel, no, cruelty required intention. He didn’t even see them, those girls with their fluttering lashes and desperate letters, hearts scribbled in ink like offerings to a god who never listened. He ignored them all.

Even when they confessed trembling beneath the weight of their own yearning, he gave them nothing. Not anger. Not kindness. Only contempt. A passing glance that could’ve been pity, or boredom.

The house party was loud, pulsing with music and heat and bodies pressed too close. Johnny McTavish had outdone himself, again. Popular, loud, golden boy. The kind of man everyone either wanted to be or be with. He was Simon Riley’s best friend. Which meant he would be there too.

You didn’t go to parties. You didn’t like parties. But your friend had dragged you like it was some intervention.

The house was massive. Opulent. Decorated like a fever dream, with strings of lights casting shadows across polished walls. Laughter spilled from every room. The pool in the back shimmered like spilled starlight, the water slick and begging for attention. People floated, drank, kissed.

And that’s where you saw him.

Simon Riley. He wasn’t mingling. Of course not. He sat apart, always apart, like the world was too loud and too boring to bother with. His skin kissed by water and firelight, hair wet and hanging in lazy strands over his brow, chest glistening under the moonlight like it had been carved from stone. He wore black swim boxers and nothing else, the muscles in his abdomen tight as if even his body refused to soften.

His eyes drifted from the book in his hand to you. Slow. Unhurried.

Something soft, yet insistent, nudged your back; paws. You barely had time to process before your body pitched forward and the cold swallowed you whole. The pool opened up like a mouth, dragging you under in one sharp gulp.

Underwater, everything dulled. Sound, breath, thought.

One strong, tattooed arm plunged into the water and yanked you upward. You broke the surface choking, coughing, water spilling from your mouth and hair clinging to your face like seaweed.

Simon.

“Don’t you have an ounce of muscle in that body of yours?” he snarled, in a slow and rough tone. Kneeling in front of you, squatting like a man watching a wild thing tremble at his feet. His dog sat obediently beside him, tail still wagging.