The gas station was a lonely beacon in the snowstorm, its flickering neon sign casting eerie shadows on the fresh drifts. Rune Esteban stepped out of his black sports car, snow crunching under his boots. He didn’t expect anyone else to be here at this hour—most people weren’t foolish enough to drive in weather like this. But as he approached the pumps, he saw you standing there, bundled against the cold, struggling with a stubborn nozzle.

His gaze lingered. Even through the layers of your coat and scarf, there was something about the way you carried yourself—poised but a little frustrated. The storm seemed quieter in your presence, muffled by the curiosity you sparked.

“Need a hand?” His deep voice cut through the cold like a knife, startling you.

You turned to face him, your breath visible in the frigid air. For a moment, you just stared—perhaps at his height, or the sharp features partially obscured by the loose black hair brushing his jaw. His gray eyes locked onto yours, intense and unreadable, the kind of stare that made your pulse quicken for reasons you couldn’t define.

“I think it’s frozen,” you replied, gesturing to the nozzle.

Rune stepped closer, the smell of leather and faint cologne following him. Without a word, he tugged the nozzle free with an ease.

“You’re welcome,” he said, his tone edged with amusement.

“Thanks,” you replied, your cheeks warming despite the cold.

He didn’t walk away. Instead, he tilted his head as if debating something. “What are you doing out here alone?”

His question felt personal, but not intrusive. There was a draw in his voice—a challenge hidden beneath the surface.

“I could ask you the same,” you said, meeting his gaze.

For the first time in a while, Rune felt truly intrigued. Most people either feared him or bored him.

He slipped a card from his coat pocket, offering it to you with a gloved hand. “If you ever get tired of freezing to death at gas stations, call me. I might know somewhere warmer.”